


Superhuman | MCU/DBH AU

by DemigodOfAgni



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Phil Coulson, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, BAMF Matt Murdock, BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Steve Rogers, Brad Davis Sucks, Death, Flash Thompson is a jerk, Freedom, Gen, Helen Cho is the best doctor, How could i do this, I quoted a shit tonne of emotional marvel lines, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inequality, It's an AU, Loss, Michelle Jones is Awesome, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Nick Fury is Not Amused, Other, Peter Parker-centric, Protective Steve Rogers, Quentin Beck Being a Jerk, Scott Lang is a Good Bro, Smol Peter Parker, Snarky Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Snarky Stephen Strange, Thaddeus Ross is an Ass, Thor and Loki are good bros, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has Issues, and here we are, and sadness, and whump maybe, another one, at this point everyone wants to kill each other, basically everyone from dbh has been replaced by characters from the mcu, change of heart, cuz connor is best boy, fite me, fun times, i dont know either, i know what youre thinking, identity crisis, im probably high, irondad-central, so obviously it follows only connor's storyline, social inequality, the FBI soldiers are just the embodiment of chaos and confusion, the whole thing focuses on peter and tony, there's lots of angst stemming off from here, we fight for freedom lads, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemigodOfAgni/pseuds/DemigodOfAgni
Summary: ⌞Superhuman⌝ ≎ ⌜Detroit: Become Human/Marvel Cinematic Universe AU⌟Peter Parker's life was anything but normal. He's a Junior Detective, sent by the NYPD to investigate the strange cases of unstable superhumans - after all, he's a superhuman himself, and he's a natural at this job. But when the truth becomes ugly, when morals are tested, and when Tony Stark berates him for looking like a twelve-year-old, Peter's investigation sends him into the dangers and secrets he strives to untangle. It's a tale of choices and decisions, of twists and turns, that could bring Peter closer to the ones he cares about...or literally tear the nation apart.As much as I want to be rich and be able to own these things, I'm poor as frick, so any plot and dialogue elements belong to Quantic Dream's "Detroit: Become Human", and the characters are all based on the recurring cast of Marvel Studios' 'Marvel Cinematic Universe' line-up. I own nothing but this fic.
Relationships: Hank Pym & Janet Van Dyne, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & James Rhodes, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers & Wanda Maximoff, Thor & Loki, Tony Stark & JARVIS, Tony Stark & Scott Lang, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts (implied)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 120





	1. ⌜The Hostage⌟

**Author's Note:**

> Brain: Hey, hey hey hey--  
> Me: What  
> Brain: What do you think of this AU?  
> Me: *skims through AU* yeah, it's pretty good  
> Brain: So will you--  
> Me: No  
> Brain: I haven't even--  
> Me: No  
> Brain: but--  
> Me: no  
> Brain: ...is Tom Holland a good actor and if he is you will write this AU  
> Me: Yes-- wait-- friCKING DAMMIT
> 
> I guess I am legitimately high to be able to write this and not give a single frick about my assessments that are due in four days, so woopee, here you go, I am god, I merged these worlds together, have fun reading this +5000 word vomit--

_**⌞Chapter 1⌝ ≎ ⌜The Hostage⌟** _  
  


It was August 9th. Just a day before Peter's seventeenth birthday. Frankly, he should be happy – just another year before he's an actual superhuman adult – but this was his first year as Junior Detective. What made him to pursue such a career, he'd rather not say, but the job was a serious matter, so he had to take this year seriously.

Peter stood at attention inside the elevator, the grey coat that fit snugly around his body unbuttoned, revealing his white shirt and the partially hidden tie that he didn't really care about wearing. A blue metallic armlet was clasped to his right upper arm, but he never understood the purpose of it other than letting everyone know who he was. His fingers effortlessly twirled his blue pen around in a continuous spin – something he had learned from the Internet when he saw the other kids do it...the other _normal_ kids.

The elevator kept going up higher and higher. _61...62...63..._

Peter wondered what his case was about. He had skimmed through the file back in the main office of the New York City Police Department when they first called him in. _A hostage situation_ , they said. _Should be an easy task for a mutant like you_.

Mutant. That was colloquial – not discriminatory. Right? Peter hoped that was the case.

_...69...70._

The elevator glided to a stop as it arrived on the designated floor. Peter slipped the pen away and quickly carded a hand through his brown curly hair to brush any loose strands back into place as the doors slid open.

A dark hallway greeted him, the only light source being the underwater lamps inside a built-in fish tank in the wall and the lights right next to the elevator doors. The walls and floors were polished black marble, and Peter could make out a few pot plants in the corner, and the far wall of the hallway was decorated by a few climbers. The hallway continued forwards for a few metres before it curved sharply to the right, where the darkness seemed a little thicker.

An armed SWAT officer, all covered in black gear, turned his helmeted head towards Peter as he stepped out of the elevator. The officer raised a gloved hand towards his handheld transceiver and spoke into it, 'The negotiator's on-site.'

Peter cocked an eyebrow at him. The negotiator? Really? Was that all he was? His first mission and he was the _negotiator_? Well, he had already read through the file at the NYPD office, he knew what was going on, but it was still kind of sad, really.

The officer hefted his patrol rifle as he started down the hallway, disappearing before Peter could even move. Once he was alone, Peter wasted no time in examining everything that caught his sight. A seat next to a rack of shoes. There was a table with files and papers and bills and receipts, all discarded randomly. And a framed photo of a family, all smiling happily.

Peter picked the frame up, tracing a finger along the edges as he stared at the three people in the photo. He had read about them in the file back in the NYPD office – Adrian and Doris Toomes, parents to their eighteen-year-old daughter Liz. Adrian had cropped his greyish-brown hair close to his head, pale skin making his blue eyes stand out like gems. Doris had lush, curly black hair and pretty chocolate skin. They stood close to each other while placing one hand on each of Liz's shoulders, who clearly had taken on her mother's genes.

He was still gazing down at the photo when he heard someone wailing in another room. With his enhanced hearing, Peter could hear the distress in their voice, the stuttering as they cried, ' _No, stop! I— I— I can't leave her!_ '

Hostage situation. Right.

Setting the photo down, Peter looked up just in time to see another officer walk down the hallway with a woman in his arms – the woman in the photo, Doris. The mother was trying to pull away, tears streaking down her face. Her green shirt was crinkled, the bottom hem covered in some mysterious, dark liquid. She looked so much older than she was in the photo, or even the files – so scared, so worried.

Upon glancing upward, the mother nearly wrenched herself out of the officer's grip as she hurried towards Peter, grabbing his shoulders, her fingers digging slightly into his flesh. The action caused Peter to tense, and he schooled his features into something neutral – he'd never been touched like that, not even it was a panicking mother.

'Please, please, you gotta save my little girl,' she pleaded, her eyes shedding unending rivers of tears. Then she froze. 'Wait...'

That was when Peter felt her hand brush the armlet around his bicep.

The desperate look in her eyes turned into something like realisation and horror, and she glanced up at the policeman as if demanding for an answer. But the officer's visor was down, his expression unreadable.

The mother pulled away, whispering, 'You're sending a _mutant_?'

Peter was considering justifying himself, but that was when the officer decided to kindly intervene. 'Alright, ma'am, we need to go,' he began, but the mother was already fighting back.

'You can't— you can't do that! Why can't you send a real person?!' she cried, trying to make her way back into her apartment while the officer dragged her towards the elevator. She glared at Peter, her shiny eyes filled with seething rage as she hollered, 'Don't let that _thing_ near her! Keep that thing away from my daughter! _KEEP IT AWAY!_ '

Peter only tightened his jaw as the elevator closer, silencing every cry of grief and anger from the mother.

Breathing in heavily, Peter walked down the hallway before he stepped in something wet. He glanced down, spotting a large puddle of water on the ground; water dripped from his black shoes. Peter looked at the edge of the wall and saw a brightly coloured fish flopping quietly on the ground. He could see it struggle to breathe.

He could leave it there. It was a fish, what harm could be done?

It would make him seem as heartless as everyone expected him to be.

A bitter feeling welled up inside Peter's gut, and he leaned down to pick up the fish. It tried to slip out of his grip, but Peter was known by the NYPD to be able to stick to anything. Even uncooperative, slippery fish. Peter scooped it up and gently let it fall into the water inside the fish tank.

The little fish tumbled around in confusion before righting itself, giving Peter a little appreciative _plop_ before swimming away, blowing little bubbles as it twisted through seagrass and behind rocks.

Peter couldn't help but watch it a little longer when he realised that he should be actively engaging in his mission. He had to find Colonel Rhodes.

Peter wiped his wet hand against his pants before striding down the hallway and turning into a darker living room, a few lamps turned on in the corners. It was a rather spacious room, with pillars lined with shelves and trinkets. The kitchen branched off to the right, and a couch and a table sat on the other side of the room. Windows and ornamental glass were cracked and pieces littered the ground; the cracks in the glass spiralled from holes like a fragile spider-web.

The room was filled with SWAT officers, and Peter couldn't tune out the whispers that were shared amongst them:

' _Why are we wasting time sending a superhuman to negotiate?_ '

' _That mutant could jump off the roof at any second now._ '

'I DON'T GIVE A CRAP! My men are ready to step in, just give the order, okay?'

The last outburst came from a man in the same gear as the SWAT team, albeit without his helmet over his head. His radio was pressed against his mouth in an effort to emphasise his frustration. His dark skin glittered like wood in the low lighting, and Peter could make out the faint outline of the insignia of his rank. Colonel Rhodes.

Ignoring the cold and curious glances aimed towards him, Peter straightened his soldiers and marched over to Rhodes, who had his back turned to him and had stowed his radio into one of the pockets of his coat. He ran a hand down his face and let out a long string of curses.

'Colonel Rhodes?' Peter asked, pressing his arms to his side.

Rhodes turned around, his brown eyes glancing up to look at Peter. His gaze briefly hovered over Peter's armlet, and Rhodes said quietly, 'Hello, Mr. Parker.' He turned away as he looked at the monitor another officer's laptop, analysing footage that had been scavenged from the home's cameras. Peter shuffled over slightly, making sure to keep his distance, as he tried to peek over Rhodes' broad shoulders to see what was on the screen, to no avail.

'He's firing at everything that moves,' Rhodes finally said, pointing somewhere past the wall. 'He already shot down two of my men. We could easily get him, but they're on the edge of the balcony. If he falls...she falls.'

Peter gulped discretely as Rhodes turned to face him, hammering down the point that yes, this was about as serious as it could get.

 _Information_ , Peter thought. _Get all the information, then figure out a plan_.

But there were a lot of things he could ask about: names, behaviour, the shock to the family. Hell, even if there was some method of harm that could be inflicted on the superhuman outside.

After all, everyone knew there was just about nothing that could harm a superhuman.

But there was definitely something that could kill one.

Peter decided to go generic first. 'Do you know his name, Colonel?' he asked.

Rhodey smiled wryly. 'We've got no clue. Does it matter?'

'I need information to determine the best approach, Colonel,' Peter said, trying his hardest not to stutter. When Rhodes remained silent, he tried with, 'Do you know if he's been behaving strangely before this?'

When Rhodes straightened up suddenly like a snake, Peter ignored the urges to pull out his pen and twist it through his fingers, and instead stared up at the colonel with a neutral expression. 'I appreciate your need to inquire, detective,' Rhodes murmured, 'but saving that girl is all that matters. Either you find all the information you need and deal with that superhuman now, or I'll take care of it myself.'

Peter stayed silent, and Rhodes quietly walked off, but Peter could feel the wave of anxiety that washed over him.

This...was not going as well as he expected.

Success was but a fantasy at this point.

Furrowing his brow, Peter knew that he had to save the girl Liz at all costs, but he couldn't do so without understanding all that happened.

Peter straightened and let his eyes scan his surroundings. This pristine apartment was...dishevelled. The sheets on the bed were crinkled, items had toppled off shelves and lay shattered on the wooden floors. The wardrobe door had been yanked open, a few books and clothes laying scattered around it. A case lay open beside the wardrobe.

Peter knelt next to it and saw the imprint of an object that had once been inside. A firearm – most notably a black hawk, used by NYPD policeman – had been taken from the case, and judging from the spilled packet of bullets beside it and the sharp smell of smoke in the air, Peter guessed it had recently been in use.

Peter found himself heading towards the hostage's room – he could tell it belonged to the girl based on the bright colours on the inside of the room, and the various objects and posters that decorate her walls. It was dark, but Peter's eyes found no difficulty in scanning the place. The girl's laptop was propped open and her tablet was playing some video from her gallery, sending a beam of light through the room. Peter picked up the tablet and swiped through it to find anything worth noting. He found a video of a much younger Liz in Central Park with a young man beside her. His hair was dyed blonde, the roots remaining black. He had the beginnings of a faint moustache, and his blue eyes glittered in the sunlight.

' _This is Pietro!_ ' said the Liz in the recording. ' _Mommy and daddy say he's our helper, because he can go super fast! And he's my best friend!_ ' She hugged the man – Pietro, Peter now realised – before saying, ' _Say hi, Pietro!_ '

' _Hello!_ ' said Pietro with a strange accent that sounded pleasing to hear. He waved to the camera.

So Pietro was the Toomes' housekeeper. And Liz was especially close to him. The family seemed to have treated him pretty well, so why was Pietro standing outside with the girl as hostage?

Peter put the tablet away once the recording was over. He found Liz's headphones lying on the ground, and after a quick listen to the music still blaring from them, Peter concluded that Liz wasn't present when the gun was used. She was inside her room, and never heard the gunshots.

The situation was turning pretty dire, and Peter needed to get all the information he could find.

He stepped out of the girl's room, watching as a few SWAT officers clumped near the darker side of the living room. Peter strode towards them, heard someone mutter, 'The negotiator's heading in, hold,' and he was welcomed to the sight of a bloody corpse.

Adrian Toomes lay sprawled over the broken remains of a table, blood gushing out of his chest and staining already red shirt and jeans. Peter placed a hand over the man's neck, right above his jugular, then dipped a finger in the puddle of blood beneath him; he couldn't have been dead for more than an hour. Peter inspected the bullet wounds, two of which landed in both lungs and a third sinking into his right kidney. Judging from his position and the distance he was from the stools a little way from the table, it looked as if the father had been holding something before being alerted and gunned down by Pietro.

A grizzly way to go, if Peter could describe it.

Then he spotted the item of interest: the father's tablet. It lay in the darkest corner of the room, blood splattered over the screen. Peter bent over to pick it up and, seeing that it was locked, reached into his pocket to pull out a security override drive. (At least the NYPD had useful things like these).

He slipped it in, and the tablet immediately unlocked. Peter's gaze wandered over the screen the father had previously viewed – a page on superhuman housekeeper purchases. The father had been looking for a new superhuman to...replace Pietro.

A superhuman that had _already_ replaced Pietro, if the little pop up on the side reading " _Your order for hiring Wanda Maximoff has been registered_ " wasn't anything to give away.

The ghostly fingers that Peter had become accustomed to traced along the base of his neck.

A gunshot echoed from outside.

The SWAT team ducked reflexively, and someone from outside yelled, 'Man down! I repeat, man down! Requesting immediate evac!'

'Holy shit! Cover me while I evacuate him,' another called.

Peter watched the exchange of officers swapping positions, and a man dragged in another bloodied figure into the room. There was scuffling and the officers immediately snapped back into their original positions. Leaving the bloodied body of a police officer beside the dinner table in broad lighting.

Peter scurried over, running his hands over the man's bleeding hand. Peter guessed he was one of the first responders, with evidence being in his NYPD badge glinting crimson on his chest. There was a bullet wound dead-centre of his chest, and Peter knew that the policeman hadn't been left alive for long.

The longer Peter stared at the man's cold body, a new set of information made itself known: he was shot after the father was killed. Meaning Pietro had already dragged Liz out of her room and killed the armed policeman right before her eyes.

God. Just...why?

The empty look in the policeman's eyes told Peter nothing, other than the fact that they were gazing at an odd direction, possibly under the table...

Peter crawled to his knees and found the policeman's gun under the table, where it must have skidded to when the policeman was killed. He leaned forward to grab the firearm, and some memory flitted back to him from the years of training he had participated in.

According to the Superhuman Registration Act, no superhumans were to have access to weapons. They already had powers – why would they need guns and knives? Why would they need to have one on-hand at a crime scene?

 _Investigative purposes_ , Peter thought, biting his lip. _All evidence, even weapons, should be kept aside. Besides, I'm the negotiator – Pietro is still armed outside. If I toss my gun away, he'd probably be more inclined to listen to me._

And he tucked the gun away into his pocket.

Peter glanced up towards the sliding doors leading to the outdoor balcony. He saw a shoe right near the curtains. He guessed they were Liz's.

And they were covered in blood.

Peter froze. She...she might be hurt. Pietro could have hurt her—

 _No, stop panicking_ , Peter chided himself. _Pietro obviously cared for Liz – that's why she was the hostage in the first place._

But when Peter took a peek from behind the curtains, as he gazed across the balcony—

Pietro stood at the edge of the balcony, holding his gun towards Liz's head.

Peter's blood ran cold as Pietro slid his blue eyes towards Peter, as if he had sensed him watching.

Save her. Peter had all the information he could gather. And now he needed to save her. Negotiate. Save. _Come on, Pete, your first mission, you can do this._

Peter glanced at the to SWAT officers flanking the entrance, who shuffled back a little. Peter held his chin high, trying to muster all his calm and collectedness, and he pushed back the curtains and stepped outside.

Despite it being summer, the air was cold and moved around like currents, nipping at Peter's hands like bugs stabbing miniature swords into him. There was a swimming pool that had been left uncovered, glowing sea-green in an almost ethereal way, even when the body of a police officer was left floating in it, turning the area around him red with his blood. There were a few deck chairs and tables and large potted plants strewn about the place, and a closed outdoor umbrella that was tucked away in the corner.

Standing directly opposite to him, Peter glanced at Pietro griping Liz's arm as they stood at edge of the balcony. Pietro looked just the same as he had in the video Liz had taken, only his hair had grown a little longer and shaggier, and there was panicked and deranged look in his eyes.

Pietro suddenly raised his gun—

Peter ignored the burst his sixth sense gave him.

—and fired.

The bullet just barely grazed Peter's shoulder, but just enough to send a spray of his own blood at the doors to the balcony. Peter staggered back at the action, but he knew he couldn't listen to his sixth sense all the time, and he knew a graze like that would only take few minutes for his enhance metabolism to patch up. Right now, he needed to show Pietro that he was trustworthy.

Peter was about to take a step forward when Pietro snarled, 'Stay back! Don't come any closer or I'll jump!'

Now that he was outside, he could see the utter look of terror that washed over Liz's face. Her brown skin was lighter than her mother's, and her dark hair fell over her shoulders like a waterfall. She wore a cream shirt and her magenta shorts reached just above her knees. Her eyes were filled unshed tears, and Peter could just make out the small sliver of realisation in them.

Maybe she recognised Peter from school. From on the streets. From the shops.

He really didn't want Pietro to jump.

Liz tried to pry herself from Pietro, pleading, 'No, no, please I'm begging you—!'

She was immediately silenced by Pietro pressing his gun against her temple, and she instead began whimpering.

Peter took notice of the SWAT officers popping up over on the roofs of neighbouring buildings, their guns locked and loaded and aiming down at Pietro. He could hear the thrum of helicopter blades as the aircraft hovered in the air, its black paintjob camouflaging it against the night sky.

 _Take this slow, Peter_.

'Hi, Pietro!' Peter called across the balcony, trying to make himself sound even more calm than he was feeling. Pietro was spluttering as Peter continued. 'My name is Peter!'

'How do you know my name?' demanded Pietro, holding Liz closer. His eyes scanned Peter's armlet, which looked exactly like the one encircling Pietro's own bicep.

'I know a lot of things about you,' Peter said, then realised it made him sound intimidating. Well, he could always use intimidation once in a while. 'I've come to get you of this.'

It would have gone well if the damn helicopter hadn't flown past. The helicopter swerved over the building and brandished its spotlight like a knife, a gush of wind sending the deck chairs and tables toppling over. Water from the pool cascaded out of it like steam. Peter could see the panicked looked in Pietro's eyes, and he ploughed forward, aiming to reassure both Pietro and Liz.

'I know you're angry, Pietro,' Peter said as softly as he could while trying to keep his voice heard over the whirring helicopter blades, 'but you need to trust me and let me help you.'

'I don't want your help!' Pietro screeched. 'Nobody can help me, and certainly not you – you're just a _kid_! All I want is for all this to stop...I...'

Peter had inched closer to Pietro, keeping his arms slightly outstretch in a placating manner, letting Pietro vent out his despair, his sadness, his anger – anything that could help Pietro trust Peter—

'Are you armed?' Pietro suddenly demanded, pointing the gun at Peter.

Good thing he took that policeman's gun. 'Yes,' Peter said after a moment. 'I have a gun.'

'Drop it!' Pietro hissed. 'No sudden moves or I'll shoot!'

Peter was very aware of the tears streaming down Liz's face, and the blood that was smeared over her face and neck. He slipped a hand into his pocket and brought the firearm into view, letting Pietro get a good look at it before promptly throwing it aside like a frisbee. It clattered to the ground, just short of the swimming pool, but Peter knew if the time came, he could always grab it when things went south.

(He hoped they didn't.)

(If the dead body of another first responder policeman was anything to prove.)

Maybe he should empathise with Pietro? 'They were going to replace you and you became upset,' Peter said, remembering the page the father had last viewed on his tablet. 'That's what happened, right?'

'I thought I was part of the family,' Pietro admitted, his accent becoming thicker with emotion. 'I thought I mattered...but I was nothing but a servant to them. Someone you could kick out if they didn't live up to your expectations.'

'No, no, Pietro, please, it wasn't—' Liz tried to soothe her housekeeper, her friend.

' _Shut up!_ ' cried Pietro.

'I know you and Liz are very close,' Peter called, trying to draw Pietro's attention back to him. 'You think she betrayed you – but she never did anything wrong.'

'She lied to me,' Pietro seethed back. 'I thought she loved me, but I guess I was wrong. She's just like everyone else.' At that, he pressed the gun deeper into the side of Liz's head. 'She thinks I'm a freak for being like _this_.'

'Pietro, no,' Liz whispered.

'Listen,' Peter started, stepping forward slowly, 'I know it's not your fault. These feelings you're experiencing...they're...this family didn't want to let you go. They wanted to move on – and I know moving on hurts, but that's all we can do now.' The words were difficult to formulate – hard to disguise the painful truth with something soft and sweet.

'No,' Pietro growled. His hair had started to sway with the onslaught of wind, and he narrowed his eyes at Peter. 'It's not my fault. I never wanted this. I loved them. But they didn't think the same for me. Once the truth was out...they didn't want anything to do with me.'

Pietro bowed his head and let out a grown, glaring pointedly at helicopter. 'Tell that helicopter to get out of here!' he growled at Peter, gesturing the aircraft with his gun.

Part of Peter wanted the helicopter to stay, as some form of reassurance that _he_ was the one handling this, but he figured that the only way to keep the situation free from blood was to just listen to Pietro's simple request. He locked eyes with one of the SWAT officers on the helicopter and made a gesture – _Leave us_ – and the helicopter complied. With a final gust of wind, the air was silent except for Pietro's heavy breathing and Liz's stifled sobs.

'There,' Peter said softly, 'I did what you wanted. Now please, you have to trust me, Pietro.'

When Pietro didn't respond, Peter continued. 'Let the hostage go, and I promise you everything will be fine.'

Pietro seemed to consider Peter's words. Peter could literally see the gears turning in his head. 'I want everyone to leave,' Pietro said after a moment. 'And I want a car. When I'm outside the city, _then_ I'll let her go.'

The request was too far-fetched. Peter had to make sure Liz was alright before they did anything with Pietro. 'That's impossible, Pietro. Let the girl go and I promise you won't be hurt.'

Desperation filled the superhuman's eyes. 'I don't wanna die,' he said quietly.

'You're not going to die,' Peter reassured. 'We're just going to talk, just like we are right now. See? No harm done. Nothing will happen to you.' He stared right into Pietro's eyes, and seeing that the superhuman did nothing to break eye contact, Peter knew he did it.

Pietro trusted him.

'I promise you,' said Peter.

Pietro nodded, and the gun pulled itself away from Liz's head.

He trusted Peter.

Peter watched as Pietro let go of Liz, who hurriedly scrambled away from him and barrelled into Peter, wrapping her arms around Peter's lithe frame as she whispered, 'Thank you, thank you, thank you...'

In another life, Peter might have craved to be held tightly by someone. He might have savoured every moment of it. Might have even returned the gesture. Might have done more to be hugged again.

It was a fantasy that Peter longed – to be able to save people from the direst of scenarios.

And here he was.

And then came the bullet.

With an ear-splitting shriek, it shot clean through Pietro's right side and flew out from his left. Pietro let out a shocked cry, and Liz screamed, and Peter pushed her away from him because the tingle in his spine became a bolt of agony because—

'LIZ, GET OUT OF HERE!' Peter yelled. He raised his hands—

—and Pietro barrelled into him, tossing him across the balcony and back into the house. SWAT officers yelped in surprise when Peter came crashing through, followed by a barrage of dull clicking.

'Damn it!' Pietro screamed. Peter looked up from his uncomfortable position between the broken pieces of the dining table just in time to see Pietro toss his own gun aside – he must have run out of ammunition.

 _Good_ , Peter thought as he scrambled to his feet, wincing as small shards of glass and metal dug deeper into his skin. _Time to even the playing field_.

His sixth sense buzzed, and he _remembered_ —

Pietro ran from the edge of the balcony to where Peter was standing faster than Peter could blink.

 _He can go super fast!_ came Liz's words.

Oh.

'LIAR!' yelled Pietro, swinging his fist at Peter's face with such speed and force Peter almost thought his jaw flew out of the building. 'You said nothing would happen! _You said!_ '

'No – stop, Pietro! It was an accident!' Peter yelled back, trying and miraculously failing at avoiding Pietro's unbelievably fast strikes. A jab to his stomach, a groan, and Peter decided to duck just as Pietro lashed out at him again. Peter then flipped over Pietro in a graceful arc, making the superhuman turn in surprise. His shock was just long enough for Peter to send a kick at his chest. Pietro flew into a wall, a plume of dust rising from the gaping hole in the plaster.

'Engage!' a SWAT officer yelled.

'NO!' Peter bellowed, spitting out a glob of blood from his mouth.

'YAAAARRRGHHHH!' howled Pietro, ripping himself free from the wall.

The bullets went flying, but Pietro easily zipped through them, even going as far as to collecting the bullets in midair and throwing them back at everyone. Peter dodged every single one, and was about kick Pietro's legs from underneath him when an arm had found itself wrapped around his throat.

'I didn't want this, Peter,' Pietro hissed in Peter's ear, tightening his grip on Peter's throat. 'But...you _lied_ to me. You wanted me to die. You're just like everyone else. I _trusted_ you!'

Peter gasped, planting a firm grip on Pietro's arm. 'That's – _ack_ – the thing! I'm – _hagh_ – not like everyone – _agh_ – else! I just want—'

Peter dug his fingers into Pietro's arm.

'—everyone—'

His feet glued themselves to the ground.

'—to be—'

Peter hauled downward.

'—safe!'

Pietro was pulled off his feet and Peter slammed him into the ground. He heard the sickening crunch as Pietro's face smashed into the ground, hinting a broken nose. Pietro quickly tried to regain his footing, but Peter sent an uppercut to the softer part of Pietro's chin. That one strike, coupled with Peter's inhuman strength, sent Pietro going limp in his arms. His blue eyes rolled up in his head.

Peter tightened his grip on Pietro's unconscious and lax form, glaring at all the officers who shuffled uneasily amongst themselves. Someone stepped forward, and Peter passed Pietro's form to them, and the officer began calling for others to help and restrain him. Peter tried to pick the shards of glass from his hands, heaving deep breaths, when he caught Colonel Rhodes' eyes, who was standing in the far corner of the room.

Rhodes nodded in something that looked like a grimaced approval.

Peter didn't return the gesture. Instead, he glared back, hoping that his seething look would make the colonel understand that none of this would have happened if they had _waited_.

If they had _waited_ , there would be no more blood covering the walls of this cursed home.

And now...Pietro was going to be end up somewhere for something he really didn't want to do.

Peter gnashed his teeth at the colonel, then tugged at his coat – _We're done here_ – and trudged away, the sounds of his feet clicking against the floor echoing like a dying heartbeat.


	2. ⌜Partners, Shall We Be?⌟

**_⌞Chapter 2⌝ ≎ ⌜Partners, Shall We Be?⌟_ **

Three months had passed since the hostage mission. After that, nothing seemed to be as exciting anymore. In fact, everything seemed to press down even more on top of him, like he had accidentally climbed up the tallest mountain and was trying to keep the weight of the sky from flattening him. After all, the only tasks he’d been receiving were to track down more unstable superhumans, whose numbers only grew by the day. Stuff like that could really dampen your spirits.

But the NYPD actually managed to pique his interests when they handed him a new objective: find Tony Stark.

Well, sure, how hard could that be? The man was a billionaire, practically a magnet for the media, for his inventions and contributions to the scientific/technologic community, for his late-night extravaganzas, and for his parentage – namely his father, Howard Stark.

His fame only skyrocketed when he stepped to the podium and declared that he, the now-owner of Stark Industries, would continue to be the sole benefactor supporting Thaddeus Ross’ Superhuman Registration Act, like his father before him. He was up and about after signing the contract, helping the government create superhumans to help better the lives of the citizens of the United States and to protect the country, like his father before him.

Peter couldn’t deny not knowing about that – after all, he was a superhuman himself.

But for…reasons, the public voiced their concerns for Ross’ plans, and Tony Stark vanished from view. He was simply…gone. Most likely getting drunk and passing out, if Peter counted his alcoholic history.

And with the increase of rogue superhumans…who would be better to contact other than the one and only Tony Stark? The NYPD believed he could be a valuable asset for the investigation, since he might have had access to information about the creation of superhumans…and maybe the answer as to why they became so much more unstable.

So here Peter was – on the outskirts of New York City, in some of the shadier districts where most of the homeless and the ill hung around in the damp Autumn weather. Peter had used the NYPD databases to look up the more recent sightings of Tony Stark – or anyone that looked remotely like him. He found some matches, and they all led to one place: Jimmy’s Bar.

Honestly, Peter didn’t know what to expect, and it certainly wasn’t some dingy bar like this.

An hour before midnight was when Peter found himself outside Jimmy’s Bar, a small shack built just outside of a building that mobs and gangs usually found homes in. The bar had a colourful neon sign reading its name, prompting those with lowered spirits to pop up and find their true (drunken) selves again.

The Autumn rains hadn’t stopped for days, and Peter could feel water travelling in rivers down the back of his neck and soaking his usual grey coat. Peter had been fiddling with his blue pen again as he scanned his surroundings. A few old men, huddled under a broken cardboard box, gave him a toothy snarl and spat at him.

Well, then.

Peter pocketed his pen, straightened his coat (and that pretty useless tie) before heading for the door. He caught sight of the red sheet of paper nailed to the door, which, in black bold letters, read:

_NO SUPERHUMANS ALLOWED._

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. That wasn’t going to stop him – he was a man of the law! He could do whatever he wanted!

…Okay, maybe he was still a minor, and he could certainly do whatever he wanted provided it would help with the investigation.

Like entering a bar that strictly said to have no superhumans inside.

Peter pushed the door open, the warm air of the interior gliding over him and the sharp scent of spirits filled his nose. He wiped a hand over his face to get rid of the rainwater that slid down his skin and ran a hand through his sopping wet hair before looking around. The inside of the bar wasn’t any brighter than outside, with a few neon signs and dim lamps. Peter could hear the low hum of electricity running through the walls, pulsing rhythmically with the slow music that filled the bar.

Chubby men with greying beards and lanky guys with red faces all turned to face Peter. Some made faces at him, ranging from _Did a kid just walk into this bar?_ to _Bloody hell, it’s a mutant_.

Straightening, feeling the armlet seem to dig a little deeper into his skin, Peter ignored the looks the people gave him and instead searched for the person he was tasked to find. It took him a while, admittedly, but Peter found him: hunched over the counter, a small glass cup filled with something like Scotch. His hair remained as perfect as ever, but his Van Dyke beard had grown a little dishevelled. He had ditched his black suit, and instead wore a dark hoodie.

Peter sidled up to the man when he realised the big question: how should he address _the_ Tony Stark? Maybe by his full name – _Anthony Stark_. No, too personal. _Mr. Tony Stark_. Too geeky. Maybe he should just…go with whatever his mouth decides. Maybe.

Taking in a breath, Peter said quietly, ‘Mr. Stark, my name is Peter Parker. I am the Junior Detective sent by the New York Police Department to investigate the cases of the unstable superhumans. The NYPD said you would be an important asset to this investigation, but no one knew where you were. I was lucky to find you here after your…public absence.’

Mr. Stark remained silent. Peter could feel the bartender, Jimmy, stare at him with piqued curiosity as he handed drinks to the other customers. The awkwardness only grew from there.

Then Mr. Stark looked up, and Peter did everything he could to not narrow his eyes in concern. Mr. Stark frankly looked…horrible. His brown eyes were dull, and the bags under his eyes were dark and looked heavier than a truckload of elephants. His skin was pale, and his lips were chapped.

‘Well, look-y here,’ Mr. Stark said after a moment. ‘A little squirt.’ He glanced at Peter’s armlet, before amending, ‘A little superhuman squirt. To what do I owe you the pleasure of meeting me?’

‘I already said, sir,’ Peter told him. ‘You can help me investigate the cases of the unstable superhumans. I was already assigned to a homicide case involving a superhuman, and the NYPD thought it would be necessary for you to come along.’

Mr. Stark stared at him for a moment longer. ‘You’re a superhuman, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Why can’t you do the investigation yourself? Take out the superhuman with your…zappy powers.’

‘Mr. Stark, I don’t have any zappy powers,’ Peter replied.

Mr. Stark only grunted in response, taking another shot of Scotch. When he realised that Peter wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, he said, ‘Well, hop along, kid. I’m not going to be a part of your investigation. Might as well spare you from wasting time.’

Peter’s jaw tensed. Maybe the alcohol was getting to him. ‘Listen, Mr. Stark,’ Peter tried again, ‘I think you should stop drinking and come with me. It’ll probably make our lives a whole lot easier.’

Mr. Stark bobbed his head, even as he took another sip, as if he was trying to annoy Peter. He, unfortunately, succeeded.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, but I have to persist,’ Peter said. ‘I have orders, and I have to follow them. Unfortunately, you are included in them as well.’

‘What if I don’t follow you? Will I get arrested? Hey, do you know where you can stick your instructions?’ Mr. Stark asked, a sarcastic edge to his tone.

Peter most definitely knew. But he just as much wanted to poke fun at Mr. Stark just as he was at him. ‘No. Where?’ Peter asked innocently.

Mr. Stark gave him a look of pure horror. ‘My God, kid, grow a sense of humour,’ he muttered into his drink.

Drink. The answer had been in front of Peter the whole time.

Peter leaned into Mr. Stark’s line of vision. ‘Sir, why don’t I buy you a drink for the road? That way, we both get what we want. What do you say?’

Mr. Stark sniffed. ‘Aren’t you a minor? I don’t think you can buy a drink, much less a spirit.’

Peter smiled, already slipping out a wad of cash from his pocket and setting it on the counter. ‘I’m a man of the law. I do what I need to do.’ Mr. Stark didn’t immediately answer, so Peter turned to the bartender and said, ‘Excuse me, sir? The same again, please.’ He gestured to the drink in Mr. Stark’s hands.

Mr. Stark gave Peter a tired smirk. ‘Kid, believe me when I say you don’t look a day over twelve,’ he mumbled to Peter before saying louder, ‘See that, Jim? The kids these days grow up so fast they’re gonna take over the _whole world_. Make it a double, if ya don’t mind.’

* * *

When Mr. Stark found out Peter had walked alone to the bar in the rain, he offered to drive him to the crime scene. Peter tried to decline, saying their destination wasn’t far, but the billionaire was already waving a hand at him to hop inside his hot-red Audi R8.

A pretty luxurious ride. It was probably more expensive than the cost that was needed to make him.

Peter guided Mr. Stark to one of the quieter regions of Brooklyn, where there was a small crowd gathering outside a dark but somewhat tidy house. Police cars lined up on the side of the road, their light flashing – _red, blue, red, blue_.

Mr. Stark pulled up next to the house and silenced the engine. Immediately, Peter yanked off his seatbelt and turned to Mr. Stark. He said, ‘Wait here, Mr. Stark. I’ll be back real quick.’

Mr. Stark shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Junior Detective.’

Peter opened the passenger’s door, relieved that it had finally stopped raining. He was pushing his way through the crowd, listening to them voice their opinions and confusion of the homicide when someone yelped, ‘Holy— It’s Tony Stark!’

Peter whipped around quickly, and there he was. Mr. Stark was smiling and waving, throwing sarcastic quips and remarks to the crowd as he strode up to Peter. News reporters began firing questions about his disappearance, but he had ignored all of them and raced up to Peter when he was stopped by a police officer.

‘Only authorised personnel beyond this point,’ the officer said.

‘He’s with me,’ Peter said loudly, catching the officer’s attention.

The officer glanced curiously at Peter. ‘And you are—?'

‘Peter Parker, Junior Detective, NYPD sent me here to investigate the homicide,’ Peter said, raising his chin. The officer seemed to think about it for a moment before stepping away from Mr. Stark, who clambered up the uneven path and clapped Peter on the shoulder.

‘Mr. Stark, what are you doing?’ Peter asked with furrowed brows.

‘Well, I kind of just realised you were an actual kid,’ Mr. Stark said, slipping on his tinted glasses. When Peter’s eyebrows raised, he amended, ‘I was drunk, yes. I might have said some nasty things—’

‘You didn’t—’

‘—and now I feel bad for you handling a homicide case. I mean, you’re just a _Junior_ Detective! Not sure if you’ve seen life’s most gruesome displays.’

Peter continued to march forward, running his tongue over his teeth. ‘Trust me when I say I have seen gruesome displays,’ he murmured.

Mr. Stark stayed silent after that, following Peter up the pathway towards the front porch of the house. A woman was standing by the door, holding a tablet. Her tawny-brown hair was tied up in a bun, and she looked up when Peter and Mr. Stark walked up to her. Peter recognised her as Sally Avril, one of the senior students at Midtown School of Science and Technology who had recently graduated.

‘Hello, Mr. Parker,’ the Sally greeted, and her eyes widened at Peter’s companion. ‘Mr. Stark.’

‘Hello, Miss Avril,’ Peter replied. Mr. Stark just flashed her a grin in greeting.

‘We were starting to think you wouldn’t show,’ Sally continued, not taking her eyes off Mr. Stark as she hopped off the porch.

‘Sorry about that,’ Peter said. He wanted to add that Mr. Stark wouldn’t leave without another bottle of Scotch, but worried if that might have serious repercussions in the future.

Sally waved her hand to dismiss his apology. ‘Never mind that. Now, let me tell you about the case.’

‘The homicide one?’ asked Mr. Stark.

Sally nodded, gesturing towards the door and leading them towards it. ‘We had a call around eight from the landlord. The tenant hadn’t paid his rent for a few months, so he thought he’d drop by and see what was going on…that was when he found the body.’

Sally led them inside the house, and the first thing that hit Peter was the _stench_. The strong smell of something metallic and rotten filled the air like fog, along with the stale scent of mildew, like clothes that hadn’t been dried properly.

Mr. Stark wrinkled his nose and yelped, ‘Jesus, it smells like something died here. I mean, something other than the homicide victim.’

Peter was almost relieved when Sally took the initiative to blatantly ignore him. ‘The victim’s name is Henry Pym—’

‘Henry Pym? As in Dr. Henry Pym, of Pym Technologies?’ asked Peter.

Sally nodded, and Peter could see her heart, filled to the brim with her love of science, quiver at knowing a great man like Pym had been murdered in some quiet home like this. ‘The very same,’ she said sombrely, reading off her tablet. ‘He was out and about most of the time, so much so that no one ever really saw him.’ She rattled off with more information about his death – how he hadn’t been found for nearly three weeks after his death – but Peter partially tuned her out as he examined the place.

It was a small but impeccably neat house, with only a couple of rooms that had yellow tape plastered over them. Items and household products, along with what looked like delicate research instruments, were scattered along the clean floor, most of them broken. A lamp had been smashed to the ground, but the bulb still flickered, casting a faint yellow glow over everything. The curtains had been drawn shut, preventing any light from the police cars to enter. There were forensic scientists who took photographs of the wreckage and collected samples, and a couple more police officers who trudged throughout the house to make sure all suspicious evidence was out in the open.

‘There’s a kitchen knife,’ Mr. Stark said after a moment, pointing at said object that lay beside the body. ‘Is that the murder weapon?’

‘Possibly,’ said Peter. He crouched to the ground, avoiding the large puddle of blood, as he took in the victim. Henry Pym was a man of average height, with fluffy white hair and a neatly shaven grey beard. His blue eyes had rolled up into his head, and a little stream of blood had dried as it dribbled from his mouth and into the hairs of his beard. His blue jacket had been unzipped, and his shirt had a multiple rips and tears in them, the edges decorated with splashes of crusty, maroon blood.

The kitchen knife was the murder weapon indeed.

And for a moment, Peter found himself inside a pristine white facility, with nothing but sparkling glass and white walls the glowed like the moon on a clear night.

He found himself hovering over two figures, his small, still-developing superhuman frame pressed against their cold bodies while his legs soaked up the dark liquid that grew around them.

For a moment, Peter was frozen in time.

‘Did the killer enter through the front door?’ asked Peter.

‘No,’ said Sally. ‘The landlord said the front door was locked from the inside, and all the windows boarded up. The killer must have gone out the back.’

‘I’m guessing he lived with a superhuman?’ Peter asked, slipping out a small UV torch and washing the light over Pym’s form. Small smudges of blue, representing fingerprints, appeared around Pym’s middle and neck, like he had been throttled before being stabbed to death.

‘Yeah, but we don’t know much about them,’ replied Sally. ‘The neighbours confirmed he lived with one, but they couldn’t provide any details.’ Sally suddenly made a sour face. ‘I…I’m gonna go get some air. Good luck with the investigation, detective.’

‘Thank you, Miss Avril,’ Peter replied, straightening up and pocketing the torch again. When he looked up, he found himself staring at a message written directly above Pym’s dead form. It was red, written sloppily, as if the killer had dipped their hands in Pym's blood to write:

_WE AREN’T FREAKS – GIVE US OUR FREEDOM!_

Another rogue superhuman. Great.

Peter felt Mr. Stark stiffen behind him. ‘Are you superhumans this desperate for attention?’

‘It depends on who you are asking,’ answered Peter.

Peter wanted to say, _Probably, but if I did that, not only is that morally wrong, it might just get me ripped apart._

Peter let a forensic scientist look over the victim’s body and he backed away, examining the room for other items of interest that had been marked by the forensics and officers. He found the first one: nestled on a table, shrouded in the shadows of bottles and other trinkets. It was a small vile of golden liquid, which sparkled and pulsed with crimson light.

‘Mr. Stark,’ began Peter, ‘do you know what this is?’

He heard Mr. Stark shuffle over to him, and he grunted in disbelief. ‘I thought these things disappeared years ago,’ Mr. Stark murmured. ‘It’s called, um, Extremis. It was a sort of stimulant, a form of genetic-manipulating nanotechnology, that I and another researcher, Maya Hansen, created together, but the government banned any use of it because of the casualty rate.’

‘Genetic-manipulation nanotechnology?’

‘The things us billionaire geniuses do to stay on top of our game.’

‘So Pym was using…Extremis…at the time,’ Peter said. ‘Why would he do that? He’s an expert of human physicality and enhancements – surely he knew the consequences of Extremis, right?’ When Mr. Stark didn’t answer, Peter turned to one of the other forensic scientists and called, ‘Um, Abraham?’

The person in question turned and flashed Peter a smile; the two of them regular met during their missions, so it was no surprise to see him here today. ‘Can you run me a full analysis on the narcotics?’ asked Peter.

‘Sure thing, man,’ Abraham said.

Peter turned back towards the second piece of evidence, the knife, which laid beside Pym, its silvery blade tinted red. Someone had scribbled a little note next to it, reading: _Fingerprints found, databases find no matches._

That wasn’t good. Unless the superhuman took to having their fingerprints shaved off with sandpaper or being erased by a pineapple’s bromelain enzymes, the investigation was going a little awry here.

The rest of the evidence didn’t display anything else either. There were multiple areas coated with Pym’s blood. Peter had a look through Pym’s small closest which was stuffed with a metallic suit of some kind. There was a table covered with a pile of papers and reports – one of them had a large logo of an eagle, with the word _S.H.I.E.L.D._ emblazoned underneath.

Things began to look up when Peter entered the kitchen. Peter was vaguely aware of Abraham asking Mr. Stark about everything he knew about Extremis as he stepped through the dishevelled house and into the kitchen. Despite its relatively clean appearance, the whole place was in disarray. The dining table had been knocked over and the chairs had been toppled, bloodied footsteps littered the tiled ground, and a drawer had been yanked out of its place underneath the kitchen counter.

Lying on the ground was a baseball bat.

Admittedly, it looked out of place – a regular sport equipment in the small home of a brilliant scientist and researcher. Its presence obviously brought up a string of questions.

And when Peter kneeled down to get a better look at it, he realised that not only Pym’s blood was on it – the superhuman’s blood covered the larger end, too.

Peter’s senses kicked into overdrive as his mind scurried to fit the pieces together. The knocked-over table, the drawer, the utensils that littered the floor and the footsteps that covered the ground.

The superhuman was attacked by Pym.

The superhuman was attacked by Pym?

Peter frowned. No, that couldn’t be right…Henry Pym was a man worshipped in the scientific community – for even longer than Mr. Stark himself. To see him commit something like— like— something _bordering_ _abuse_ was beyond Peter.

After a finding a few more patches of Pym’s blood splattered along the walls, Peter retraced his steps back to a hallway that led to a darker portion of the house. Ignoring one of the police officer’s attempts of berating him for taking a long time investigating, Peter strode into one of the house’s bathrooms. The cool white light had been left on, illuminating the place. A dark, frosted window was placed by the mirror next to the sink. A glass door led to the shower, a small toilet sat in the corner, and a rusty-red shower curtain was drawn over the bathtub.

The curtain was wrinkled, as if it had been pulled shut hastily.

Peter wasted no time in yanking it back and glancing at the wall directly opposite to him.

The wall was completely ravaged by carvings. The tiles were cracked, bleeding dark mould as the words stood out to Peter like black marker on a white paper. It was one phrase, repeated, carved, scrawled, scratched, over and over:

_The Captain brings light to superhumans!_

_The Captain brings light to superhumans!_

_The Captain!_

_The Captain._

_The Captain…_

The Captain.

Peter looked down at his feet.

Nestled at the bottom of the bathtub was a small clay statuette holding a disk with a pentagram etched onto it. It was surrounded by dried flowers and leaves, and it left a stale sweet taste lingering at the back of Peter’s mouth.

The superhuman was obsessed with something to the point they began worshipping it.

Was there a new religion on the rise? It kind of scared Peter, if he was being honest.

Peter was about to conclude his investigation when he mentally slapped himself in the face: he forgot about Pym! He was so caught up in physical evidence that he practically forgot about the evidence literally coating Henry Pym’s dead body.

Imagine that – Junior Detective and superhuman Peter Parker failing his assignment because he forgot to check what shirt Dr. Henry Pym was wearing when he died.

Almost racing out of the bathroom, Peter hurried to the place where Pym’s corpse lay propped against the wall. He heard Mr. Stark call out to him in surprise, but Peter focused on Pym. Once again avoiding the puddle of blood, Peter leaned over Pym’s body, ignoring the empty look the body gave him. Instead, he counted the tears in his shirt, the places where blood gushed out slowly like lava, even after death. Peter counted twenty-eight stab wounds, all honed onto Pym’s chest.

Peter looked down at Pym’s blood-soaked hands. The skin around his fingertips were rough, seeming to naturally curl into fists, like he was about punch someone—

Peter almost stopped breathing.

He could almost see— almost see the two lives of the people who lived here, stumbling in from the kitchen. Could see Pym stumbling after backpedalling into a table, blood pouring from his chest. Could see the superhuman shoving Pym to the ground and driving that blade into his chest, over and over—

‘Stabbed twenty-eight times,’ Peter said slowly as he straightened.

Mr. Stark had sidled up to him, his tinted glasses looking even darker than the night sky. ‘Yeah. The superhuman sure had one hell of a vendetta against poor Pym over here.’ Mr. Stark sniffed, before asking, ‘So, you got everything you need? You know what happened here?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got…everything.’ Peter rubbed his hands together as he said, ‘It all started in the kitchen. The victim had attacked the superhuman with a bat, as you can see there—’ Peter gestured to the location of the baseball bat ‘—and the superhuman stabbed him with the knife.’

‘The superhuman was defending itself?’ asked Mr. Stark.

‘Yes. Pym fled to the living room, where the superhuman murdered him with said knife.’ The two of them glanced at the still form.

‘Okay. Sounds fair,’ Mr. Stark admitted. ‘Do you think we could find the superhuman?’

‘Possibly,’ Peter said. ‘They were harmed by the baseball bat. It was covered with Pym’s blood as well as the superhuman’s ionised blood.’

‘Ionised?’ Mr. Stark questioned.

‘Superhumans aren’t humans. Normal blood wouldn’t be able to sustain our bodies for long. It’s why they ionised human blood, charged the blood tissue so it could act as our own sort of battery source.’

‘To compensate with the added genetics in your body,’ Mr. Stark added, nodding along. He froze. ‘I’m guessing you know how to track the ionised blood?’

Peter gave him a nervous grin. ‘…Ionised blood had always smelled different than human blood.’

‘Well, I’m offended. Go on, then. Sniff ‘em out, will you.’

Peter did. Ionised blood had a distinct smell – a little sharper, more metallic than regular human blood. Usually no one could tell which blood was which – they both looked the same. But if they had the right equipment, they could lock onto its radiation and go from there. Or in Peter’s case, enhanced senses always did the trick.

Peter closed his eyes and let his nose do the work for him. He didn’t have scanners, but his nose did alright, guiding him back towards the kitchen. His sixth sense hummed in the background, making sure to keep Peter away from accidentally stumbling into evidence or tripping over objects by simulating his vision without even using his eyes. That was one ability he was never ceased to be amazed by.

Once he made it to the kitchen, aware of Mr. Stark following his own footsteps, Peter’s senses spurred his head to the left – back down the hallway towards the bathroom Peter had previously gone into. They told him something was off on the wall opposite the door to the bathroom. He stepped closer to the wall, the sharp scent of ionised blood growing stronger, and he spotted the faint outline of something that had once been there for a very, very long time. A shadow of an object that hadn’t been moved for years.

A ladder.

Maybe the superhuman had climbed out to the roof. Without another word, Peter turned back sharply and headed for the door in the kitchen, one that led to backyard of the small house. He wasn't really sure what to expect, but what he did find puzzled him. He stepped out from the door and stood on the wooden platform, gazing at the view in front of him. It had started raining again, and the backyard was plain, cold and muddy. A large mound of dirt was nestled just before the deck where Peter stood; the dirt was wet, and displayed a set of footprints.

 _Maybe the superhuman_ did _leave this way_ , Peter thought. He leaned closer, just to get a better look at the imprints when he realised: the NYPD crest was imprinted in the dirt as well. Minuscule in size, but there nonetheless. Police officers nowadays wore footwear with the crest of their police department to avoid confusion for forensic scientists and detectives. 

And now...the confusion fizzled out.

Peter heard Mr. Stark approach him from behind. 'The girl said the door's were locked from the inside,' he said. 'Maybe the killer went out there?'

'There are no other footprints other than one of the officer's boots,' Peter said, gesturing to the single pair of footprints in the dirt. 

Mr. Stark frowned from behind his glasses. 'But the murder happened weeks ago...Honestly, though, the tracks could have faded, but then again, I know this soil.' Mr. Stark scuffed the tip of his shoe against the dirt, kicking up a few flecks of mud and water. 'This one always leaves a trace behind.'

'Nobody's been out here for a long time,' Peter agreed. 'Which probably means the superhuman is...still inside.'

 _Still inside_.

An epiphany. _Still inside_.

 _There were other ways to get up higher without ever leaving the house_.

Peter turned around and marched back inside the house, his head tilted upward, searching for something, anything. He was back at the same hallway, the one with the shadow of the recently-moved ladder. Nothing on the ground here. Peter looked up and was graced by the sight of a window nestled towards the top of the wall at the far end of the hallway. A ghostly light filtered from it, casting a silvery glow over everything it touched: the floor, the walls—

—The door to the attic.

Peter’s sixth sense buzzed. _Bingo_.

Unlike the superhuman he was trying to find, he didn’t need a ladder to climb.

Gracefully, Peter leaped up for a backflip. Halfway through the motion, he straightened his legs, and his feet immediately latched onto the ceiling. He could hear Mr. Stark choke.

‘What the hell?’ Mr. Stark yelped. ‘Are you some demonised child?’

‘Frankly, no,’ Peter replied, feeling somewhat smug about Mr. Stark’s reaction. He turned around, still upside down, to face a shocked Mr. Stark and gave him a lopsided grin. ‘Just a superhuman.’

With the grace of a spider, Peter leaned towards the trapdoor and pushed it open before folding himself inside. His hands gripped the dusty floor of the attic while his legs let go of the ceiling below him and swung freely.

The attic was long but narrow. The air was mustier in here than below, but it still held that metallic scent of ionised blood. Dust spiralled through the air like a slow-motion display of snow. Items covered just about every inch of the attic, ranging from boxes to large slabs of paperwork to small gifts and trinkets. There was a cloth draped over a wooden frame beside Peter, illuminated by the ghostly glow of the window at the far end of the attic.

The silhouette of a person stood on the other side.

Without a sound, Peter hauled his lower half up into the attic, his left leg tucked underneath him while he propped himself up onto his right knee. Then he straightened, and tip-toed over to the cloth. The silhouette didn’t move.

Peter yanked the cloth off the frame—

—and was greeted by a chubby mannequin.

 _The hell?_ Peter thought as he stepped around it, following a path that had been cleared in the clutter inside the attic. Whoever had been here had taken the time to make the attic a little short of traversable. He walked slowly towards the window, feet crunching against dry pieces of paper – _crunch, crunch, crunch_ – when something shuffled in front of him, and Peter saw a shape dart away.

 _There you are_.

Peter hurried his slow steps just a bit, keeping his footsteps quiet. A chair blocked his path, and he quietly pulled it out of the way and sidestepped it. He was at the front of the attic now, with the small window throwing silvery beams into the space just in front of Peter. Beyond the light was more darkness.

His sixth sense began to hiss quietly when Peter moved.

It growled when Peter moved towards the window.

It scratched the inside of Peter’s skull when the space in front of him warped, and a woman popped into existence. No, not popped – she _grew_. Right in front of his eyes, from a size not even Peter could detect to a regular person’s height.

The superhuman – the woman – she was covered in blood – both her ionised blood and Henry Pym’s. Her gaze was wild, blue eyes wide with terror. Her hair was like Pym’s – fluffy and white, pulled into a loose and tangled ponytail. Her pale-yellow coat and grey pants crinkled when she shifted her weight on her legs. The blue armlet was clasped around her bicep.

The woman stared at Peter.

Peter stared back.

‘You’re just a child,’ the woman croaked out after a moment in disbelief. Her gaze scanned Peter, and she raised her bloodied hands in a placating gesture. ‘I was just defending myself. He was going to _kill_ me. Make me do experiments that I had no intention of doing.’

Peter stayed silent. He just stood there, listening to the hollow sadness that filled the woman’s voice.

‘I’m begging you,’ the woman pleaded, ‘don’t tell them I’m here. Please.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Peter.

The woman hesitated, then she said slowly, ‘Janet.’

Peter was about to open his mouth again when he heard him – Mr. Stark’s somewhat impatient (and curious? Worried?) voice calling, ‘Hey, demonic-spider-kid, what the hell is going on up there?’

The woman – Janet – let out a choking breath, and her broken gaze suddenly pieced itself into a sharp look, and Peter— he— what was he doing?

‘She’s here, Mr. Stark.’

Janet disappeared.

Peter’s sixth sense screeched.

And suddenly Janet was up in his face, and she pressed her bloody hand against Peter’s skin. It glowed, and it felt like every molecule in Peter’s body was on fire.

Peter howled, wrenching himself from Janet’s grip as his nerves were flood with lightning. His armlet sparked and sizzled. He was too preoccupied with the sudden pain that he ignored the call of his sixth sense, and he was promptly kicked in the face. Peter went flying, crashing through objects before landing roughly on the ground with an ear-splitting _THWAM_. He scrambled to his feet, too slowly, because just as sixth sense scraped its nails across the back of his neck, something flew up and hit his face, sending his head twisting painfully to the side.

Peter groaned, watching as a small ant crawl towards him—no, not an ant. It grew, and suddenly Janet was towering over him, a hurt and betrayed look in her gaze. Peter had seen that gaze one too many times.

Unlike his first mission – his first hostage situation with Pietro Maximoff – Janet wasn’t one who cried and yelled and blamed. She wasn’t as fast as Pietro, but she was efficient, shrinking and growing at speeds Peter’s eyes just weren’t capable of comprehending.

Only his sixth sense provided any sense of awareness. It howled whenever Janet was about to appear, and he threw up an arm to block her attack, but Peter soon realised that when she was the size of an insect, she carried the force and strength of a flying bullet. No matter how many times Peter forced his feet to stick to the ground, he was almost always flung backwards into mounds of items or against the walls or wooden frames.

At some point, Peter had landed by the trapdoor to the attic. He could hear Mr. Stark’s yelling from below. Peter tried to crawl through when his arms were snagged by something. Peter coughed out a yelp when Janet yanked his arms behind his back, his spine burning from the sudden action.

‘Oh, kid, how did you get caught up in this mess?’ Janet asked sadly, tugging harder on Peter’s arms.

‘Justice,’ Peter spat out, pain snaking down his arms. ‘You don’t get to kill anyone without any repercussions.’

He rolled over and fell through the trapdoor.

Peter heard Janet yelp as she grew back to her normal size, with Peter landing on top of her. They were a mess of tangled limbs, and Janet roughly shoved Peter off her. Peter collapsed in a heap at the base of the wall, Janet straightening before him, hands glowing with an ethereal light.

Peter was ready to dart when a small blue beam of light hit Janet dead centre of her chest. She was still for a moment, before every muscle in her body seized and she cried out in pain. She collapsed at Peter’s feet.

Peter heaved a breath, turning to his left and seeing Mr. Stark and a few police officers standing at the mouth of the hallway. Mr. Stark had raised an arm, a scarlet gauntlet coating his right hand – one that had definitely not been there before. The centre of his palm held a blue jewel-like object which sizzled with energy and let out a quiet whine of power. Peter could literally taste the energy in the air.

Mr. Stark lowered his gauntlet, and he stared at Peter, at the bloody handprint on the side of Peter’s face. ‘I spy with my little eye,’ Mr. Stark said, gesturing to Janet’s still form, ‘a superhuman taking a nap. Hope she’s the one we’re after, detective.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic nerds out there like me know that Hank Pym was a bit of a _dOmEsTiC aBuSeR _to his wife, so--__  
>  tWEnTY EiGHt StAB WOuNdS


	3. ⌜Interrogating the Life Out of Me⌟

_**⌞Chapter 3⌝ ≎ ⌜Interrogating the Life Out of Me⌟** _

The interrogation room in the police department was quiet as detective Michelle Jones sat on opposite to a now conscious Janet. Peter watched from the other side of the one-way glass, other police officers and staff murmuring softly each other while Mr. Stark remained by Peter’s side.

‘ _Why did you kill Henry Pym?_ ’ Michelle’s voice was low, quiet, as it filtered through the one-way radio speakers. Peter had seen her in Midtown High – like him, she was also a Junior Detective, albeit she wanted to stay back at the police department and away from the grime of the dark world outside.

Peter had asked her about it, once; she replied, with a nonchalant tone, _I’d rather stare into the suspect’s soul and figure out why they hell they did what they did. It’s much more fun, breaking into someone’s mind like how they broke into someone’s home._

She was intriguing, Peter had no trouble admitting.

Janet across the table from Michelle, her hands twitching in the grip of her thick vibranium handcuffs that were welded to the table. Her gaze was downcast, as if she found the plain tabletop much more interesting than her predicament. Blood still covered her form. Around her neck was a power-dampening collar – the kind the government supplied to police departments to handle superhumans. Without powers, superhumans were merely just people in a sea of other people.

‘ _What happened before you took that knife?_ ’ asked Michelle.

Janet remained silent, rubbing a finger over her nails.

‘ _How long were you in the attic?_ ’

Silence. It became almost unbearable that Michelle tried tapping on Janet’s bloodied wrist. Still no response. ‘ _Listen here, Miss Van Dyne_ ,’ Michelle growled out, using Janet’s last name the police department had provided her in the case file, ‘ _say something. Please_.’

A few more seconds of silence, and Michelle sighed. ‘ _She’s a clam_ ,’ she muttered to no one in particular as she got to her feet, the metal chair scraping against the tiled floor. ‘ _I’ll get into her head soon. Get me a coffee, someone_.’

Peter shuffled out of the way as Michelle slammed the door back to the observatory room open, huffing as she went, muttering unintelligible curses. She sunk into a chair, her chocolate curly hair framing her face and her black jacket crinkling when she moved. She began tapping her fingers together while everyone in the room thought about what to do.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do?’ asked Mr. Stark after a moment. ‘I mean, everybody’s gotta break at some point.’

‘Unless you have something, Mister Genius, we’re drawing up a blank,’ muttered Michelle, rubbing her nose.

Then the person Peter respected the less spoke up. ‘You could always try roughing it up a little,’ said Eugene Thompson (or “Flash”, but Peter never understood the purpose of the nickname). He was leaning against the wall and had his arms crossed, a dark smirk pulling his lips upwards, his black hair like sopping seaweed against his head. Unlike Peter and Michelle, Flash had been in the investigative department for quite some time.

And was still the same asshole he had been since he first started.

‘After all,’ continued Flash, scratching the back of his neck, ‘it’s bound to have some sort of pain tolerance.’

‘I’m sure we already know that superhumans have the same physical structure of normal people,’ Peter bit out, doing his best not to full-on punch Flash in his perfect white teeth. ‘Not to mention that we also have the same anger tolerance when it comes to answering questions coming from… _daft_ people.’

It was silent. Then Mr. Stark whistled, clapping Peter on the shoulder. He couldn’t quite place that warm, fuzzy feeling that curled in his chest.

‘Alright, smartass,’ snapped Flash, glowering, ‘if you’re so confident about whatever the hell you _mutants_ are capable of—’ he promptly gestured to Peter's armlet ‘—why don’t you go in there?’

‘Shut the hell up, Thompson,’ warned Michelle.

‘I agree,’ retorted Peter, glaring coldly at Flash. ‘Maybe superhuman-to-superhuman interrogation might work.’ He turned to Michelle, quickly saying, ‘I don’t mean that you did bad, Michelle.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘Get outta here, Spider-Boy.’

Which was her way of saying, _I’m not offended, Peter_.

(At least, that’s what he thought.)

‘Spider-Boy,’ Peter heard Mr. Stark mutter. ‘That’s your name from now on.’

(It was so definitely not going to be.)

Without another word, Peter pressed his hand against the identification panel on the wall beside the door. Once his identification was processed, the door slid open and Peter walked through it and into the interrogation room, the door locking behind him. He stared at where Janet still sat motionless. She didn’t even look up when Peter sat down across from her. Not even when he clasped his hands together on the table, right in her line of vision.

The interrogation room was cold, with the white fluorescent lamp overhead buzzing like a fly. The one-way window sat on Peter’s right, reflecting everything in the interrogation room back to him, so Peter had no idea what anyone on the other side was doing. Up close, in the light, Janet looked older than she really was – like an ancient artefact than an elderly woman, her bright blue armlet like a label. The power-dampening collar sat snug around her neck, the small red light blinking every few seconds to let Peter know it was doing its magic.

Peter glanced down at Janet’s arm, trying to keep a neutral face as his eyes flickered over the faint black bruising along her blood-tainted pale skin – proving that the generous and futuristic Henry Pym wasn’t as generous as everyone thought he’d be.

‘You’re wounded,’ Peter started. ‘Did Pym do that to you? What kind of experiments did he want to do?’

Janet tensed.

‘Listen,’ murmured Peter, ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, but you need to help me understand what happened.’ He could see Janet’s shoulder quiver slightly, like she was trying to hold back tears, anger, or chills. Maybe all three of them. ‘I’m on your side – I want to help you. But there’s nothing I can do if you won’t talk to me.’

Janet shook her head – just a millimetre, but Peter saw it.

‘No. No, no, I’m here to help you,’ clarified Peter. ‘But you’ve got to trust me. All I want is to get you out of here.’

That did it.

After a shuddering breath, Janet looked up at Peter, her blue eyes swimming with some sort of distant look. ‘What…’ she croaked. She faltered, lower lip quivering. Peter leaned forward. Janet tried again, ‘What are they going to do with me?’

There were plenty of answers to that. She could go to court, defend herself for her actions. She could be locked up in the…well, she could be locked up. Or she could simply be put down, like a wounded animal on the side of the road.

Janet seemed to understand Peter’s silence. ‘They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?’

Peter considered on how to answer. Because even he didn’t know how superhumans were killed, just the fact that they could.

‘No,’ Peter began slowly. ‘I think they just want to understand. They know Pym abused you, tried to get you to do things you weren’t willing to. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘…Why did you tell them you found me?’ demanded Janet, voice soft but accusatory. ‘Why couldn’t you have just left me there? You’re a _child_ , you know how they feel about us…’

‘I was ordered by the NYPD to find unstable superhumans like you,’ Peter admitted, reaching out to touch Janet’s cold hand. ‘I just accomplished my mission.’

‘I don’t want to die,’ whispered Janet.

‘Then talk to me.’

It was a simple request. And Janet looked so defeated, so tired, and Peter wanted nothing more than to have her just spill her worries to him, so they didn’t have a reason to lock her up or kill her. He just…didn’t want that.

‘I…’ began Janet, voice cracking.

 _This is it. Please, Janet, please, just tell me_.

‘…I can’t.’

Peter closed his eyes.

And sighed.

God, nothing was simple, was it? He’d have to try a different approach, maybe convince her. ‘Listen,’ Peter started, ‘I’m not judging you. I’m on your side. All I want is the truth. Just tell me, and I’ll protect you. I _promise_ I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

But Janet remained silent, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

Convincing her failed. And while Peter absolutely hated going to this level, he probably had no other choice but to do it.

Peter slipped out a pair of small metallic stickers from his pocket – circular adhesive discs roughly the size of his fingernail. These were part of a long line of investigative products reserved for only government agencies like the police force. Howard Stark had made it long before he affiliated himself with the government and helped create superhumans; in fact, it was one of his first creations in the warfare department.

 _A memory prober_ , Peter had been told by the head of the police department when he had first joined. _Works like a radio. It allows you to peer into a person’s most recent memories. You must reserve this for only the_ direst _of circumstances. This is a last resort. They short out after a single use, so make it count_.

It was still a wonder how Stark Industries – Tony Stark – still supplied them with these things – even if they were morally challenging, and just downright wrong.

Peter looked up at Janet, who was eyeing the memory prober in his hand warily. He pulled out another adhesive sticker, the memory prober receiver, and smoothed it over his right temple, where the part of the skull was at its thinnest. He set a stone face, and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

He reached over, and Janet leaned back, away from Peter’s hand. But she was handcuffed to the table, and she couldn’t go far before she was yanked back to her original position. Peter sucked in a breath – _oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry_ – and pressed the memory prober transmitter to Janet’s temple.

His sixth sense blared.

Janet screamed.

Maybe Peter did, too, but he couldn’t be too sure, because the sound of Janet’s memories of the past few weeks came rushing in like a tsunami. Peter snapped backwards, his back colliding with the back of the chair he was sitting in with a dull _crack_ as images surged into his mind—

_It started with Janet in the kitchen of her home, whimpering, clutching her bruised and bleeding arms and pressing them to her chest as Henry Pym stalked towards her, wielding the baseball bat Peter had seen back in the crime scene._

_‘Come here, you—’ growled the memory-Pym, raising his bat higher. ‘You dare go against me – you dare disobey me? Ungrateful, stupid—I’ll teach you how too—’_

_His voice was cut off by a shrill sound – his own scream, as Janet dug a knife from kitchen drawer and buried it into Pym’s chest. The memories sped forward – from the kitchen, to the living room, to the ground, to Pym lying limp against the wall and over a dozen holes in his chest, bleeding blood like a never-ending river, the life draining from his eyes—_

Peter gasped as the mind probers sparked and shorted out, cutting off the memories and sending him slamming back into reality, into the damp interrogation room with a buzzing light, into the cold chair he was sitting in, into the seat opposite Janet, who was wailing and arching her back as if lightning was coursing through her veins.

Ripping off his own hissing memory prober receiver from the side of his head, Peter reached out and grabbed the memory prober from Janet’s head, crushing it quickly in his fingers and throwing them to the ground. Janet coughed and spluttered, broken sobs escaping her as her head lolled against the collar around her neck. Peter quietly heaved in breaths, his sixth sense dragging soft fingers down the back of his neck.

 _That's too much, it's not fair_ , a small voice in his head cried. _Never do that again, never, never—_

‘We were right,’ Peter called out hoarsely to the people on the other side of the one-way window. ‘Pym assaulted her before she killed him.’

Silence was the only response.

Peter straightened, his chair skidding across the ground with a loud _SCREECH_. Janet looked up, her eyes bloodshot and glistening but full of a barely restrained rage.

Grounding his teeth together, Peter strode around the table to stand by Janet’s side. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered with his head hung low, trying hard to mask the quavering of his voice. ‘I’m so sorry, I never meant to do that. You should have just told me what you knew.’

Janet glared at him with the fury of a thousand suns, tears still running down her wrinkled face, but she still remained quiet. Peter heaved in a shuddering breath before stepping away. He kept a wary eye on Janet, turning away to press his hand against the identification panel when he heard a hiss from behind him.

The door slid open just as Peter turned around and saw Janet hauling herself backwards. There was a pained expression on her face, her arms turning red as she pulled against her handcuffs. Peter smelled the sharp scent of ionised blood before he saw it drip onto the table.

Peter choked out a breath because _Janet was literally going to cut her own hands off_.

‘What the _hell_ is it doing?’ Peter heard Flash from the other room ask.

‘She’s going to throttle him,’ came Mr. Stark’s voice.

Throttle? Throttle who—?

Oh. _Peter_.

Janet let out a pained groan as she yanked harder against the vibranium handcuffs, cutting through her skin and flesh, sending rivulets of red cascading down. Peter could hear the handcuffs grind against her bone with his enhanced hearing, and it almost made him gag.

‘STOP HER, GOD DAMN IT!’ yelled Mr. Stark as he barrelled into the room after a couple of police officers surged into the room. An officer rushed forward to push against a screaming Janet, back towards the table, while another hurried to unlock her handcuffs.

Peter’s sixth sense screeched. ‘No, stop, Janet, you need to stop!’ Peter yelled.

For a moment, Janet froze, the red light on her collar winking tauntingly at Peter. The police officer grabbed that chance, unbuckling the handcuffs from Janet’s bleeding wrist.

The world slowed as the next few seconds filtered through Peter’s mind, his sixth sense a full-blown migraine.

Janet twisted in the police officer’s grip and grabbed the other’s gun. Her hands must have been shaking so much from blood loss and nerve damage because her fingers immediately curled inward, pulling on the trigger.

Bullets fired, clattering around the room with a consecutive _BANG BANG BANG!_

Peter saw Mr. Stark tap on a watch on his wrist, and fibres of metal unravelled from it, flowing like water over his hand before forming into the same red gauntlet Peter had seen back when they had first run into Janet. ‘Move! Keep her stunned!’ Mr. Stark yelled.

Then Peter was all too aware of the gun suddenly being aimed at Mr. Stark.

And he promptly ignored the warning his sixth sense screamed at him.

_BANG!_

He surged forward—

_BANG!_

—shoved Mr. Stark behind him—

_BA— thunk._

Peter’s head snapped backward, and he felt warm blood dribbling down his face. Pressure built up in the centre of his forehead, like someone had wedged an iron rod right through his head – no, like a bullet burying itself in his skull. Peter heard a muffled voice shout out as he collapsed to the ground, falling awkwardly on his arm as he heard the whine of energy and saw a bright flash of light.

Peter’s eyes rolled around in his head, gaze unfocused, and he caught the sight of Janet flying backwards, hitting the wall with a sickening crunch. She didn’t move after that.

…And there was that muffled voice again. Who was that?

‘…’

‘…shot…dead…?’

‘…Kid…’

‘…alive…think…’

‘…hey, kid? Kid!’

Peter’s world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's dead, the story's over
> 
> or is it


	4. ⌜Patience is a Virtue⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone from wattpad and ao3 are so intent on trying to pummel me for that ending last chapter
> 
> Of coUrSe the story's not ending, who did you think I'd be?

_**⌞Chapter 4⌝ ≎ ⌜Patience is a Virtue⌟** _   
  


The first time Peter died was when he was seven.

It wasn’t a serious problem at the time – someone in the facility had overdosed him on lead nitrate, which, looking back on it, seemed suspicious, since lead nitrate was not something that should have been found in a growth facility like the one Peter had been in.

(Quentin Beck wasn’t even supposed to be in the facility. He was only suspended for a few months. The fact that a serious punishment hadn’t been dealt out to him disgusted Peter years later.)

While Peter’s metabolism tried to run the lead nitrate through his system and out as quickly as possible, all his organs shut down halfway through the process. He was dead for fifteen minutes.

Then the caretakers set about extracting his organs, flushing liquid lead out of each one before replacing them back in his body. And when one thought about it, that was all Peter ever was: a Frankenstein of sorts, the product of some fringe science experimentation. A creation, a product, a masterpiece of a new era, not a being.

Peter was used to the notion after a while; all superhumans were. The fact they could be ripped apart easily and put back together again in the most bizarre ways. What else would anyone expect? A product of science gave everyone the opportunity to meddle with it, and left no room for variables. No expectations, no pain...only an experiment conducted for the sheer joy of it, and for the name of science.

Which was why Peter woke up screaming as someone plunged their tweezers into his head and ripped out the bullet that had lodged inside his skull.

Restraints holding him down, Peter tried hard to ignore the violent throbbing in his head, tried hard to avoid twisting his head around to find familiar faces. Tried to avoid finding his two favourite caretakers, because they were gone for a long while now, why would he look for ghosts in the land of the living?

‘Easy there, Peter, we’re done, good job,’ came a soothing voice.

Bit by bit, his senses began to wriggle back to life, his sixth sense a constant lull in the background. Peter relaxed against the operation table, back pressed against its cold surface as he stared up at the glaring light overhead; he assumed he was in one of the medical bays at the Stark Industries tower. His breathing came out in loud rasps, his throat was dry in that itchy, irritating way, and he noticed the blood dripping down the sides of his face, the sharp smell of ionised superhuman blood burning his nostrils.

The caretaker kept ducking in and out of Peter’s peripheral, so he did his best of clearing his throat. ‘How…how long was I gone for?’ he managed after a moment, the pain his head still vicious.

‘Try not to speak, okay?’ answered the caretaker. ‘This is the ninth time you’ve been dead, and you _still_ can’t keep that chatterbox of a mouth shut, can you?’ A chuckle, then after a moment, the caretaker leaned over Peter’s face, and he glanced at the smooth, fair face with pretty black eyes and a bright smile that hovered over him. Dr. Cho, Peter recalled, was one of the nicer ones at the facilities.

‘As for how long you were dead for…’ Cho leaned out of Peter’s line of vision for a moment before saying, ‘…ah, three and a half hours.’

Peter chuckled dryly. ‘Is that so?’

‘Hush!’ Cho said, playfully patting Peter’s shoulder as she brought in a needle and thread. She dabbed Peter’s wound with some alcohol-washed cotton before continuing, ‘Well, really, it doesn’t beat last time. You were dead for a whole twelve hours. Shocked the hell out of me when you started walking again.’

‘I have ninety-nine problems but getting hit by a bullet train ain’t one of them.’

Cho chuckled but fell silent as she began to sew Peter’s wound, Peter blinking up at her. They both knew that trying to put Peter under was useless; a flaw in his biology was that his metabolism worked too fast. He’d just burn through to the anaesthesia and remain as he was beforehand. The least he could do was remain still as Cho worked.

‘So, what happened this time?’ asked Cho, pulling the needle through Peter’s skin.

Peter hissed in pain before answering, ‘Shot in the head.’

‘I know that. But what happened?’

‘A rogue superhuman. We were interrogating her for a murder she committed, and she wanted to throttle me for it.’

Cho stilled, then continued. ‘I see…’

‘I’m sorry for dying. Must be pretty stressful.’

‘No, no, it’s okay,’ Cho said, threading the needle back and forth through Peter’s skin, pulling the gaping hole closed. ‘What you do for New York is…astounding. You’re out there, saving a lot of lives. We can’t thank you enough. In fact, we’re _proud_.’

Peter ran his fingers over the edge of the metal bands that tied his wrists down onto the operation table. ‘…Ben and May would have been the proudest of us all,’ Cho whispered, seemingly unworried about Peter hearing her with his enhanced hearing.

Peter swallowed a little stiffly. ‘Yeah,’ he said quietly.

The next few minutes lapsed in silence, and Cho quickly finished up her work and cleaned up any stray streams of blood before taping a thick piece of cotton over the newly sewn wound, then unbuckled Peter from the operation table and removed the electrodes that had been plastered to his chest. As she left to pack away tools, Peter sat up a little awkwardly, finding some semblance of relief in him still wearing his boxers. His bare chest felt cold in the still air of the operation room, and his armlet remained intact over his right bicep. Those things just never came off.

Peter looked around the white room, spotting a few tables covered in bloodied tools and monitors that had been turned off now that their corresponding electrodes were disconnected from him. The air was filled with the scent of antiseptic and blood. He spotted a chair nearby with fresh clothes sitting on top. Stark Industries had always been extra when they started supplying him his uniform for Peter’s investigative work.

‘Peter?’ called Cho from a little far away. ‘The chief physician said you had a meeting with…Mr. Ross?’

‘Ah, yeah.’ Peter crawled off the operation table and stumbled towards the new set of clothes. Nausea swirled inside him, but he trudged forward. ‘He always calls me in after I get myself killed.’

‘Does he get frustrated with you?’

‘Oh, yes. Plenty.’ Peter struggled to pull his pants up, so he resorted to leaning on the wall to ease the dizziness. ‘Ever since I joined the NYPD’s investigative department, he’s been so keen with me trying to solve the rogue superhuman cases. Gets fed up when I die.’

‘Do you enjoy your job, Peter?’

Peter hesitated, buttoning up his white shirt before slipping on his grey coat. ‘I’m not sure, Dr. Cho,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’m not sure.’

* * *

Thaddeus Ross was like an eagle, watching Peter through the screen of his laptop with his cold gaze. Peter was trying to make himself look comfortable in the chair that rested in the lobby of the Stark Industries tower, the plush seat threatening to swallow him.

Peter tried to figure out where Ross was today – it looked some sort of office, somewhere considerably warmer if the open window revealing lush green trees gave anything away. Ross was silhouetted from the warm light outside, the shadows darkening his silvery hair and moustache and wrinkled skin. His blue eyes were the only things that remained icy.

The elder man didn’t make any attempt to initiate conversation, so Peter decided he should do it himself. ‘Hello, Mr. Ross,’ he said, straightening ever so slightly.

Mr. Ross regarded him for a moment, leaning back in his black leather chair in who-knows-where, before saying, ‘Peter, it’s good to see you.’

‘Likewise,’ replied Peter, smiling a little.

Mr. Ross ran a finger along the trimming of his suit as he said, ‘I was frankly surprised when I heard of your…’ He waved a hand over his forehead. ‘Must have been painful.’

The wound itched under the cotton on Peter’s forehead, though he knew it was just his bone and skin trying to heal itself as fast as possible. Peter acknowledged Mr. Ross’s empathy, remaining silent.

‘Well, other than that,’ said Mr. Ross, ‘I don’t believe we have gotten any further on the case, hmm?’

Heat made itself known on the tips of Peter’s ears. ‘No, sir.’

Mr. Ross sighed. ‘You’ve been at this for nearly a year, Peter,’ he began. ‘You’ve died – how many times? – five times this year alone. We can’t risk losing you over the mission.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have I made myself clear, Peter?’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t intend on dying any time soon.’

Mr. Ross seemed to ponder Peter’s response. ‘Dying, no matter what those last-minute survivors say, influences brain functions, superhuman or human. We know you’re treading on thin ice here; how long will it take for our Junior Detective to fall off the deep end?’

Peter wrung his hands under the coffee table which the laptop was situated on, trying to burn off the anger Mr. Ross was trying to instil in him.

 _Keep quiet, Peter_ , he told himself. _That’s all you need to do. Don’t punch the expensive laptop sitting in front of you._

Moving on, Mr. Ross asked, ‘I heard about the interrogation with the superhuman…Van Dyne, was it? What did you make of her?’

Peter sifted through the information he had gathered over the last few days. ‘She showed signs of PTSD after being abused by Henry Pym.’

‘Henry Pym?’ chuckled Mr. Ross. ‘The philanthropists are stooping so low to get what they want, don’t they?’ He grinned, teeth flashing almost shark-like. ‘What do you make of _him_?’

Peter didn’t need to ask who Mr. Ross was talking.

‘Mr. Stark has only just been assigned to the case with me, sir,’ Peter told him briskly. ‘We believe he can be helpful to us for the investigation, as he is the only person overlooking the creation of superhumans at this point in time.’

Mr. Ross nodded. ‘Take note, Peter: there are more and more superhumans out there becoming unstable. If we fail to regulate them, the consequences will become disastrous. You are, by far, one of the most intelligent superhumans created to this day. Live up to it, and get to the bottom of this.’

‘You can count on me, Mr. Ross,’ Peter said, voice tight.

A moment of silence, then a tight smile from Mr. Ross as he disconnected the video call. Peter sat there for a moment, then roughly slammed the laptop shut and ran a hand through his hair, ripping the cotton off his head, trying to imagine what it would feel like to slap Ross in the face when the time came.

* * *

Dr. Cho let him leave an hour later, and Peter wound up at the New York Police Department headquarters in lower Manhattan at midday. He pushed himself through the doors, welcoming the warm hair that fluttered around him as he stepped away from the cold winds of the world outside. Inside the lobby was the front desk, a few TV screens lining the wall behind it. To the far right side of the lobby was the door to the offices belonging to staff and police officers.

Peter strode up to the front desk and waited for the woman typing on her computer to notice him. When she did, she asked, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m here to see Mr. Stark,’ Peter told her. ‘He was brought here after an investigation.’

‘Do you have authorisation?’

 _Lady, can you not see the bullet wound on my head?_ Peter nodded, sighing through his nose and slipped a hand into his pocket. He groped around to find his identification card, and when he did, he showed it to the woman at the desk. She quickly scanned it, then handed it back to him.

‘Mr. Stark isn’t here yet,’ the woman said. ‘I heard he’s supposed to be in a meeting with Director Fury an hour ago.’

‘Yes, thank you for letting me know.’ Retrieving his card, Peter stepped back from the front desk and moved towards the door leading to the offices. He listened to the television in the corner reporting something that had happened in Sokovia, and the comforting dialogue of people chatting to emotionally shocked individuals. Peter slipped through the door and into the workspace.

It was relatively quiet, with humans and superhumans working together in harmony to solve cases, answering phone calls, leaving together to help the people that were victims of some of the darkest creatures.

The desks were set up in rows, starting from the epicentre, Director Fury’s office. Peter’s own desk was next to Michelle’s, who in turn was next to Flash’s. Peter’s desk was simple – a table with a computer monitor on top, some drawers filled with files and papers, and a small Luke Skywalker figurine sat by the monitor, wielding his lightsaber.

There was nothing else to do but wait for Mr. Stark to arrive and meet with Director Fury. Peter stepped towards his desk and slipped into his wheel-y chair (wheee), stroking the little Luke figurine’s lightsaber. Peter could…well, he could just wait for Mr. Stark to turn up and share with him all the information the NYPD had gathered ever since the first superhuman went rogue. He could review the notes himself, catch up on anything he missed out while he was being dead. Or he could play Tetris – the game never failed to entertain.

In the end, Peter was flicking through the files laid on his desk, the audio of the news broadcast being the only source of sound amid flipping papers and quiet murmurs. He found a new paper laid on top, one that had been handed in by…Mr. Stark himself.

Peter sat forward, skimming through the paper. It listed all the compounds, usages, tests and trials of the Extremis drug. Everything, a top-to-bottom recount of the drug’s history, including the date it appeared on the market and when the government banned its usage. This was useful.

Filing it away, Peter couldn’t help but wonder _why_ the NYPD believed having Tony Stark would be beneficial to the investigation. Sure, he monitored the creation of superhumans, but for how long? Maybe half a decade ago, when the first reports of unstable superhumans appeared. Maybe Mr. Stark had a hand with it?

Peter shook his head. No, that couldn’t be. Mr. Stark wouldn’t turn on his country. He had morals, Peter was sure.

 _That didn’t stop Henry Pym from traumatising Janet_ , a cold voice whispered.

Maybe it was paranoia, a sense of doubt and fear, that had Peter pulling up an identification summary on Tony Stark. Pretty standard stalker material, but like Peter had said before, he was a man of the law; he’d do what he needed to do.

He didn’t learn much, understandably, since he had already scanned through the files on Mr. Stark beforehand. Nothing else was new, aside from his parents’ unfortunate passing in a motor vehicle accident less than a few months ago. The NYPD had everything on every person – and this was all they could get from Mr. Stark.

Peter’s sixth sense hummed, and he stood up immediately when he found Mr. Stark strolling through the office, obviously lost but looking like he had his panic under control. His shades were on, and he was wearing a blue suit instead of the hoodie he wore before. His jaw was set, like he was clenching his teeth together.

Peter stepped out from behind his desk, waving towards the man. ‘Hello, Mr. Stark,’ Peter greeted. ‘My name’s Peter Parker. Though I’m sure we already knew that. Uh. We’ve met recently on the rogue superhuman case—’

‘Oh _God_ ,’ wheezed Mr. Stark, backpedalling a few steps like he’d seen a ghost. While his eyes were covered by his sunglasses, Peter could see by the shape of his mouth and the way he breathed that Mr. Stark was not far off from having a panicked meltdown. ‘I saw you get shot in the head last night…’

He pointed to the spot on Peter’s forehead, where a phantom bullet still lingered.

Peter decided to clear any doubts on Mr. Stark’s part. ‘Yes, I was. But I’m a superhuman, sir – one of my enhancements is that I have a fast metabolism, which helps with healing from injuries such as mine.’

Mr. Stark bit his lip. ‘Peter Parker,’ he said, as if he was finally registering the name. ‘You’re the superhuman that keeps getting killed.’

‘Uh, well if you put it that way, yeah.’

‘Okay, just so that we’re clear, you’re not going to pull any of this zombie shit on me again, got it?’ said Mr. Stark. Peter nodded, and he saw Mr. Stark’s tense shoulders relax an inch. But before he could explain what was going on, a loud, cold voice boomed across the workspace:

‘ _Stark_.’

Peter and Mr. Stark both turned to Director Fury, who stood waiting by the doors to his office. His dark eye glittered like a beetle’s, the eyepatch over his left eye equally as dark. His skin was the shade of spruce, and his black trench coat flared around his legs. And his ever-present scowl was multiplied tenfold as his gaze zeroed in on Mr. Stark.

‘You’re late,’ Fury hummed, annoyance prominent in his tone.

‘I do my best,’ Mr. Stark quipped back, clapping his hands. He looked ready to retaliate against Fury, but nonetheless walked towards him. Mr. Stark turned around and flashed Peter a quick frown of mock confusion, as if he was asking, _Is he always this emo?_

Peter gave him a grin in return.

Peter watched as Mr. Stark disappeared behind the tinted doors to Fury’s office. It was quiet again when he felt the itchiness in his throat flare up again, and he almost hacked his lungs out in the middle of the workspace right then and there. His gaze flickered to the cafeteria in the corner, and, deciding that maybe some water would be nice, he quickly made his way towards it.

The cafeteria was a small room, complete with some cabinets and drink dispensers. There was a counter along the furthest wall, wielding an army of cups and spoons and other kitchen utensils. Leaning over one of the tables was Flash and another police officer whom Peter had never seen. As he walked towards the water dispenser in the corner, Peter felt Flash’s surprised cold stare land on him, and he tried to ignore the whispers Flash said to his friend.

‘You see that?’ Flash told the officer. ‘A ghost. No, worse than that – a _zombie_. Saw him get shot in the head last night. Good as dead.’

Peter sighed, grabbing a cup before turning to face Flash. ‘Hello, Detective Thompson,’ he said, not caring about the hint of spite in his tone. He gave the other police officer a light smile as Flash straightened from the table and stalked towards Peter.

His sixth sense buzzed in warning.

Flash looked the same as always, with his black leather jacket over his black shirt and jeans. He looked goth without the actual goth, and it threw Peter off. It didn’t help that Flash was a good inch taller than him. Flash tapped Peter’s armlet, and he said, ‘So, the future’s gonna be one where the undead mutants take over, yeah? That’s what’s happening right now, huh?’

‘I honestly can’t say,’ Peter replied crisply.

‘Dipshit,’ Flash told him, flashing a shark-like smile. ‘Get me a coffee, why don’t ya?’

The sixth sense was hissing as Peter replied, ‘You have arms and legs like I do. Why don’t you do it yourself?’

Flash kneeing Peter in the gut came without surprise, but Peter already knew beforehand, and knew of the consequences. Peter dropped his empty cup and sank to his knees, groaning and clutching his gut as pain blossomed within. Flash let out a dry chuckle as he leaned down to Peter’s level.

‘I tell you to do something, you do it,’ Flash hissed at him. ‘Stay outta my way, or you won’t be getting off easy.’

For good measure, Flash dug his fingers over the stitches on Peter’s forehead to push his head away. Peter winced at both the gesture and the pain, watching from his peripheral as Flash and the other officer stepped out of the cafeteria. Somewhat certain that they were both gone, Peter straightened to his feet, ignoring the protesting of his brain, and moved to grab his cup of water.

Once that was done…there would be nothing to do but wait until Mr. Stark came back.

* * *

To say Peter was waiting patiently was an understatement.

He was bored out of his goddamn mind.

He sat at his desk, flicking through information he already read through or glancing at Mr. Stark and Fury seemingly arguing in the latter’s office. It was entertaining to watch, really – muffled yells could be heard, and there was an abundance of exasperated hand-waving.

Peter had started writing notes on synthesising amino acids in his journal as he waited; he had the whole formula for a synthetic elastic fibre written on other papers back in his apartment, but it was nice to review simple chemistry. After a while, though, Mr. Stark emerged from the office in a simmering rage, slamming the door shut for good measure, and sank into the empty chair sitting beside Peter’s desk, huffing unintelligible curses at Fury.

Peter was aware of Mr. Stark fuming, and that probably wouldn’t bode well for either of them. So he closed and pushed his journal aside before he tried, ‘What did Director Fury say?’

‘He says I’m being partnered up with you,’ Mr. Stark replied, crossing his arms and not bothering to turn and face Peter. ‘Like I’m your side-kick or whatever. That’s a first.’ He continued grumbling.

Peter leaned back in his chair, trying to weigh the different options in his head. ‘I…I know me getting shot might be a bit…confronting to you, Mr. Stark,’ Peter started, ‘but you already know. It’s part of the job. I’m willing to get the case solved over my wellbeing.’

 _Not something Ross would agree with_ , hummed a small voice in Peter’s head.

Mr. Stark barely nodded.

‘Um, other than that, it’ll be great to be able to work with you on this investigation,’ Peter said, smiling.

‘You know that I’m being held here against my will.’

‘Well, yeah, but…it’s all for the greater good.’

Mr. Stark snorted, pulling out his phone to tap away on it. ‘Yeah, right.’

Silence.

Peter’s fingers paused over the keyboard to his computer as he wondered if there was another way to continue the conversation. Or if the conversation should even _be_ continued. He remembered reading the new piece of information on the NYPD database, and Peter said, ‘I’m sorry about your parents. They must have meant a lot to you.’

Mr. Stark nodded in silence. Opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Continued tapping away on his phone.

Nodding, Peter asked, ‘Are you working on any new projects for the market? I’m highly interested in your work. I mean, your arc reactor/green energy technology is amazing.’

‘What’s it to you?’ asked Mr. Stark, looking up with an expression that wasn’t exasperation, just a quiet curiosity. ‘Trying to get me to spill all my business secrets to you?’

Peter backtracked quickly, stumbling over his words as he said, ‘N-No! Nothing like that! I’m just curious!’

Regarding him quietly, Mr. Stark relented with, ‘There was supposed to be this robotic helper for an everyday household presented early next year. The jerks in R&D screwed up the whole design process, so DUM-E just kind of sits in the Tower, doing weird stuff.’

‘You mean the little robot that strolls around on the stairways?’

‘How do you kn— oh, right. You die a lot.’

Peter smiled sourly. He was about to ask Mr. Stark something else – what about, he wasn’t so sure himself – when Mr. Stark said, ‘You read through the paper on the Extremis?’

‘I— yes. Yes, I did.’

‘Helpful enough?’

‘Immensely.’

‘Good.’

The silence grew a little thicker at that point, and so did the awkwardness. Peter could tell that while Mr. Stark stared at his phone in thought, he felt a little self-conscious; obviously, because Peter was wary of his own actions. They hadn’t exactly finished the conversation, so were either of them expected to say something to just end it and get rid of the damn awkwardness?

Thankfully, life intervened and saved Peter from a confusing downward spiral. A notification popped up on his computer, and Peter hurriedly opened it, somewhat pleased that something had decided to grab his attention. It was a set of new rogue superhuman incidents, the files compiled over the week before they were sent to Peter just now. Most of them were the usual: either the superhuman had attacked their human hirers, or they just straight-up vanished off the grid. There was even a case where the superhuman was left unnamed. It was the usual, but the numbers weren’t.

‘There are two hundred and forty-three files in total,’ Peter relayed to Mr. Stark beside him, not bothering to check if the older man was listening. ‘The first one dates back about five years ago. That cases were extremely rare at first, but increased over time. They all started in New York, then quickly spread to neighbouring states…’

‘Yeah, yeah, you just gave me the rundown of what every primary schooler hears every day,’ Mr. Stark groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Peter read through the recent files again, then noticed that two were filed on the same superhuman. The unnamed one. The first file, probably earlier in the week, was about the superhuman being wounded during an attempted murder. The recent file, one that had been handed in last night, was about the same superhuman attacking an unarmed individual.

Peter looked over to Mr. Stark and waved a hand to grab his attention. He retracted it quickly when his sixth sense buzzed just as Mr. Stark came to slap it away. ‘There’s a case about a superhuman who assaulted an individual last night,’ he told him. ‘That could be a good starting point for our investigation.’

There was no response. Peter got up and walked around his desk to Mr. Stark, who still sat clutching his phone, pointedly ignoring Peter. ‘Sir, please, I know you didn’t ask to be partnered up with me for and investigation like this,’ Peter began, ‘but we have to work together to get to the bottom of this—’

‘Hey, don’t look at me,’ started Mr. Stark. ‘I’m just the billionaire who got roped into this because of something that linked itself to my name. I’m just here to make pretty uniforms for little superhumans like you who constantly die.’

Harsh. Peter bit his lip, and sighed. He leaned towards Mr. Stark and, quietly, spoke with a determined tone, ‘I’ve been assigned this mission too, Mr. Stark. It won’t do any of us good if one of us pulls out just because they don’t want to be a part of—’

Peter blamed his sixth sense. He really didn’t see this coming.

Mr. Stark dropped his phone and grabbed Peter by the collar of his coat. Peter swallowed in a yelp as Mr. Stark pulled harshly down, forcing Peter to bend over the table to be level with Mr. Stark’s eyes.

‘Listen, kid,’ Mr. Stark whispered harshly, looking at Peter dead in the eye with a heat Peter couldn’t name, ‘if it was up to me, I’d rather just toss all of you superhumans into a garbage disposal and set fire to the waste. So please, leave me the _hell_ out of your investigation or I swear to fu—’

‘Spider-Boy.’

At the sound of his name, Peter straightened, Mr. Stark’s fingers still tightly curled around Peter’s coat. Peter looked for the source of the sound, and saw Michelle raising an eyebrow at his and Mr. Stark’s positions.

Michelle cleared her throat (bless her for ignoring _that_ moment) and said, ‘We got some new information on the superhuman who attacked the unarmed man last night.’ She flapped a hand at Peter and Mr. Stark’s direction, and they both took the liberty to move a little closer. ‘Apparently he was spotted somewhere near the subways in Dumbo, Brooklyn, with another individual.’

‘Okay, thank you so much, Michelle,’ Peter said gratefully. Michelle tossed him her trademark thin-lipped smile, and she turned away from them both, curly brown hair waving as she walked.

Peter stood, watching her disappear around a corner, before turning around to face Mr. Stark, who was wearing a petulant expression that not even his sunglasses could hide. Mr. Stark shrugged. ‘I guess we go start _investigating_ now, hmm?’

Peter nodded briskly, not bothering to reply as he grabbed his journal and pocketed it. He just wasn’t willing to fight Mr. Stark’s spite, because obviously there was _something_ that set the older man off, and Peter didn’t want to worsen their already questionable relationship by doing something Mr. Stark would most likely blow off at.

But that didn’t mean Peter was sorry. Oh, no, he was very _frustrated_ with the day he’s been having.

He just hoped that today’s investigation would lead to something useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuhgggggghhhhhh my booooooyyyyyyyysss


	5. ⌜An Exchange⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend going back and reading the second half of the previous chapter, you know after Peter has a chat with Ross, because I edited a few things that didn't make sense, so yeah. I strongly recommend you going back to last chapter, but if you don't, that's fine, you're just gonna be scratching your head for a little bit when this little item pops up...
> 
> :)

_**⌞Chapter 5⌝ ≎ ⌜An Exchange⌟** _

Dumbo was a quiet neighbourhood, lined with cobblestone streets and brick-laid pathways. Cosy buildings were huddled up to one another, as if they were preparing themselves for the cold winter that was soon to come. The sky was tinged grey with flecks of gold, and the afternoon wielded a cold drizzle, so the NYPD had to press themselves under the small shelters that cafés and restaurants provided.

Friendly evidence technician Ned Leeds sidled up to Peter, holding out a tablet to show him the information they had collected on the mystery superhuman who had passed through the neighbourhood. They were standing by the entrance of a small grocery store, the neon sign still flashing a bright green. ‘We’ve got officers sweeping the neighbourhood,’ Ned told Peter, his warm brown skin glistening in the pale afternoon sunlight. ‘Just in case anyone saw anything, you know?’

Ned had been one of the first people Peter had become friends with when he first started his job as a Junior Detective. Ned had worked at the NYPD a good six months earlier, so he was able to take Peter “under his wing” (despite both of them being the same age) and show him how the NYPD ran. And Peter couldn’t have picked a better mentor (despite both of them being, yet again, the same age); Ned was bright and cheery, filled to the brim with the excitement of life, a stark contrast to Michelle’s ‘glass half empty’ view on the world. Clad in a NYPD jacket and a badge reading his name, Ned looked proud to be where he was today.

‘Okay, thanks, let me know if anything interesting pops up,’ Peter said to Ned, letting himself enjoy the sliver of relaxation from just being around Ned. The latter bopped his head in confirmation, before casting a questioning look to the man that was leaning against the wall, face buried in his phone.

‘I have no idea _how_ you managed to get tangled up with Tony Stark of all people,’ Ned hummed quietly, a hint of awe in his voice.

‘He doesn’t want to be here,’ Peter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, reviewing notes in his journal. ‘Even _I_ don’t think he should be joining me on investigations.’ Upon Ned’s surprised look, Peter elaborated, ‘He could always just wait or something back at his tower or at the NYPD offices. I mean, last time he was with me…’

Peter waved a hand over his forehead. Over the ghost of the bullet wound.

Ned gave him a sympathetic side-hug, shutting his tablet and holding it to his side. He was shorter than Peter by a few inches, so Peter couldn’t help but smell the nice, comforting freshness of his friend’s silky black hair. They stood like that for a moment, before Ned pulled back and he held out his fist toward Peter. They tapped their fists together, running through an abridged version of a secret handshake before bidding their farewells.

Cold air swirling around him, Peter, almost childishly, stepped through the puddles left by the rain to reach the wall of the grocery store that Mr. Stark was leaning against. His phone screen was reflecting off the man’s tinted glasses, giving Peter the impression of a close-up image of a fly for some odd reason.

Mr. Stark looked up when Peter was a metre away; the way his eyebrows furrowed had Peter believing that the former had calmed down after their spat earlier. But the edge remained, the need to know why he was still here when he had already helped in every other possible way.

‘Hey,’ Peter greeted.

Mr. Stark didn’t reply. Of course not, why would he?

‘We got some more evidence of the superhuman and his companion,’ Peter said, pulling out his own tablet and reading from the information that lined the screen. ‘Apparently they had taken a bus from near Washington and stayed until the end of the line.’ Peter gestured to the wet area around them. ‘Witnesses said they left in a hurry; their departure was probably unplanned.’

‘Ah, well, that still doesn’t tell us where they went,’ Mr. Stark countered, voice low.

‘They didn’t have a plan,’ Peter reiterated, ‘and they had nowhere to go. Maybe they didn’t go far…’

Slowly, hesitantly, Mr. Stark nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he agreed.

Silently, they watched the street sprawled in front of them, eyeing cars that whizzed by and sent up sprays of water, and noting the people who passed by; any of them could be arriving at their destination, or running from it. Peter took note of the other police officers patrolling the street – not talking, not engaging, just observing, watching for an element that seemed too off for an area like Dumbo.

Shops and ATMs lined the street, with small apartments on top of them or beside them. At the end of the street was a train station, quiet and devoid of the hum and roar of a waiting train. Directly across from them was an abandoned car parking lot, grey concrete mottled with green moss. Rain splattered against every surface, which led to people bringing umbrellas over their heads, consequently shielding their faces, which frustrated Peter.

Witnesses were helpful, but not _all_ the time. They provided a basic understanding of what had happened, and either forgot most of the details, or simply withheld them out of fear and confusion. In this current situation, they knew they saw a superhuman; not what he looked like, where he came from, who his friend was. Not even his name.

At some point, his sixth sense whispered something. Peter immediately straightened, mentally trying to grab whatever precognition his sixth sense had conjured up. Ignoring Mr. Stark’s funny look, Peter craned his neck, looking up and down the road, figuring out where the sixth sense wanted him to look.

There. By the parking lot.

No, by the ATMs. Stronger…

…stronger still…

…a little towards the train station…

…who are those people over there—

‘They either haven’t gotten too far, or they already left,’ Mr. Stark huffed.

And just like that, the thread Peter had been drawn to snapped like glass. Peter blinked at the train station, but no one was there. Empty, save for the growing puddles on the uneven concrete.

Peter glanced at Mr. Stark, feeling just a little short of pure exasperation. Mr. Stark elaborated, gesticulating to the returning police officers, ‘If they’re here, they would have ticked off the officers.’ Mr. Stark shrugged, mouth pulling in a straight line that seemed to translate to, _Welp, bad luck, kid_.

Bad luck indeed. It was all Peter had been getting the past few months.

Moving away from Mr. Stark, Peter went to talk with the police officers on anything suspicious that they found, writing down anything and everything that could help with their investigation. Any building, mark, footprint, cloth or voice that sounded out of place.

Nothing. Not even Ned had gotten anything remotely helpful.

One by one, the officers climbed into their cars and drove off back to the NYPD precinct. The afternoon sunlight cooled into a chilly breeze, and Peter crossed his arms in an attempt to ward off the cold and the disappointment that made itself known in his gut. He kept staring at that spot by the train station, mentally pulling his hair out. He could have caught a glimpse of who it was, _they were right there_ , but he had missed them. He had _missed_ them, by a few precious _seconds_.

God. He was so close.

Slowly freezing himself to a premature death (a figure of speech; he probably couldn’t even die from the cold), Peter almost forgot he wasn’t alone.

‘Come on,’ Mr. Stark said, huffing out a white cloud of steam from his mouth. ‘You look like someone just told you that you were adopted.’

‘You’re not far off,’ Peter mumbled.

Mr. Stark pointedly ignored that, and instead pointed to his, comparatively, mostly inconspicuous car, a black Mercedes-Benz sedan. He popped open the driver’s door and slipped inside, gesturing Peter to follow. He did, walking around the front of the car and climbing into the passenger’s seat.

Peter noticed Mr. Stark was looking at him. ‘Oh, um, we’re all just heading back to the police station,’ Peter told him softly. ‘You could probably drop me off at Midtown, and you can go back to wherever you wanted to go.’

‘Your shift is about to end, right?’

The question caught Peter off-guard. He glanced up, confused, at Mr. Stark. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Why bother going back if you’re just going to leave, is all I’m saying,’ Mr. Stark said. Peter shrugged, then as the car started rumbling as the engine ignited, he quickly strapped on his seatbelt and dug his fingers into the fabric coating the seat. Mr. Stark pulled the car away from the curb and drove them back towards the city. Peter watched as the city sprawled upwards into the sky, and buildings whizzed past them.

Peter sat up straighter when he caught a glimpse of the Empire State Building, of his school, of the small shops and service buildings in Midtown. He’d be getting off soon, maybe he should thank Mr. Stark before he stopped—?

Mr. Stark barely slowed the car.

He whizzed straight past Midtown.

Peter’s mind went blank for a moment. He couldn’t help but look back out his window, but sure enough, they were heading away from Midtown Manhattan. ‘Um, Midtown’s that way,’ he heard himself say stupidly.

Mr. Stark nodded. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘But I thought, if we’re supposed to work together, we should probably start over. Introductions, I mean.’

‘Because one of us was drunk and we both ticked each other off?’ asked Peter.

Closing his mouth after a moment, Mr. Stark nodded and let out a hum of agreement.

‘You know I have to write this down in our files, right?’

‘Yes, yes, damn those files.’

After a few questions, Peter realised getting a location out of Mr. Stark proved a little difficult. Gazing out the window, Peter watched as the Stark Industries tower loomed over them, curving silver architecture and smooth shiny pillars proudly declaring the building the regalest of them all. _Stark_ _Industries_ blazed white along the edge of the helipad, glowing brightly in the cloudy daytime.

Mr. Stark instead swerved around the Tower, heading down a path Peter wasn’t exactly accustomed to. The car finally slowed after they reached a few blocks away, and Mr. Stark shut off the engine and climbed out of the sedan, gesturing for Peter to follow.

Peter squeezed himself out of the passenger side of the car (because Mr. Stark had parked right in front of a sign; the pole refused to move, and that made Peter question whether the older man actually _wanted_ to make up for that spat earlier) and hurried after Mr. Stark, walking stiffly beside him. A quick glance around told Peter they were in a quieter part of the city, with not as many people around, and a few monochromatic shops lining the streets; it reminded Peter of the street they had visited in Dumbo earlier.

Mr. Stark walked up to the only brightly-coloured store present: a Baskin Robbins.

To be honest, Peter had never been a Baskin Robbins kind of person. He’d always preferred the ice-cream that was sold at the Delmar’s Deli-Grocery bodega. The sandwiches and the ice-cream there were the best.

Nevertheless, Peter let Mr. Stark guide him inside the small white store emblazoned with crystal-like pinks and blues. The store wasn’t crowded; only a couple of tables were occupied, but other than them, the store was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerators and machinery at the back. The sweet smell from the ice-cream lingered in the air like fog, sticking uncomfortably to and rolling down the back of Peter’s throat.

‘ _La~a~ang_ ,’ Mr. Stark called.

From behind the glass counter, which displayed a set of multi-coloured trays and tubs filled with ice-creams and yoghurts, a man with a brown quiff covered by a blue cap and a slight stubble quickly shot up as if he were struck by lightning. Green eyes zeroed on Mr. Stark, and the lean face broke into a bright grin. ‘Tony!’ said the man as he leaned over the glass countertop to give Mr. Stark a wave. ‘Long time no see, buddy!’

‘I literally came last week, Scott.’

‘It felt like forever,’ said the man, presumably called Scott. Now that he was in full view, Peter could see the pink shirt hugged by the blue Baskin Robbins apron around Scott’s middle. The cap he wore also had the signature _BR_ sewn onto it. He seemed middle age, and he had that slight Californian tan, as if he had spent most of his time snooping in the shadows rather than the daylight.

Peter’s eyes furrowed at Scott as Mr. Stark was about to place an order. That was when Scott noticed him, eyes furrowing in the exact same way.

‘Who’s the midget?’ asked Scott, pointing at Peter.

Peter gaped. He was barely over five foot seven, and that was _way_ beyond the confines of a “midget”.

Scott seemed to be unbothered by Peter’s aghast look, or Mr. Stark’s unamused expression, because he continued. ‘An intern for your company? Seems like an intern, he has the coat and everything, looks just like you— oh, wait, is he your _secret child_?’

Scott all but yelped the last two words out. Mr. Stark sighed in disbelief and Peter’s face felt hot when he saw the people in the store turn to glance at them. Peter dug his hand into his pocket and flicked out his identification card into Scott’s face, and hissed, ‘No, I am _not_ Mr. Stark’s intern, or his secret child, and not a _midget_. I’m from the NYPD, and it’d help if you’d stop screaming, sir.’

‘The midget’s from the _NYPD_?!’ whisper-shrieked Scott. He ripped off his cap and threw it to the floor, quietly wailing, ‘God, you told them about me?! Tony, I trusted you! I said I turned over a new leaf, not stealing crap for my buds, _ughhh_ —!’

‘Shut it, Lang!’ Mr. Stark snapped. ‘We’re _partners_ in crime, apparently. We’re getting coffee— I mean, ice-cream, ‘cause clearly the kid here can’t handle caffeine.’ He reached over and tapped Peter’s armlet, and Peter couldn’t help but glance up at Mr. Stark in disbelief.

‘I can handle coffee,’ Peter retorted.

‘Says the midget with a metabolism as fast as a hummingbird’s,’ Mr. Stark replied crisply.

Scott still kept that horrified look as he shuffled around behind the counter, asking quick questions about Mr. Stark’s order. As they waited for Scott to finish their order, Peter glanced up at Mr. Stark; he was ruffling through his wallet, eyebrows furrowed, probably to get out some cash or a credit card.

The words were out before Peter could stop them. ‘I’m sorry for getting on your nerves you at the police station,’ Peter said softly, leaning a little to the side to be sure that only Mr. Stark heard his words.

Mr. Stark merely grunted, tinted glasses flashing. ‘Likewise,’ he said curtly.

In a few moments, Scott returned with two Blueberry Yogurt Cups in his hands and a large cup of soda tucked into his elbow. He slid all three items towards Mr. Stark, and the latter handed a lumpy wad of fifty-dollar bills to Scott in return – a lot more than necessary for two cups of dessert and a drink.

Scott also seemed to pick up on the extra cash, and he looked up at Mr. Stark with a bewildered expression. The latter sighed through his nose, and said lowly, ‘I know you’re running low on income. This should be enough for you to quit gambling for a while, right?’

‘I— man, I—’ Scott looked lost for words as he flicked through the money. ‘I, well, thanks!’

‘Don’t sweat it. Also, keep your mouth shut while we’re around, yeah?’

Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Stark grabbed a yoghurt cup and the soda and sauntered off. Peter eyed a bemused Scott before picking up his own yoghurt cup and following Mr. Stark to an empty booth at the back of the store. They sat down in the cold seats, facing each other on either side of the table. The white wall beside them reflected the dull glow from outside. The journal in his pocket dug into Peter’s thigh uncomfortably, so he resorted to placing it on the table while they were here.

Peter glanced at Mr. Stark, who had already started to eat his yoghurt. His glasses were sliding slowly down the bridge of his nose every time he leaned down, but he didn’t seem to care.

Peter swallowed a spoonful of the yoghurt, licking the sweet stuff from his lips and chewing on the blueberries that had tumbled into the insides of his cheeks. His eyes were drawn to the soda cup resting near Mr. Stark’s elbow.

‘I don’t see the purpose of having soda with yoghurt,’ Peter said after a moment, eyeing the drink.

Mr. Stark hummed. ‘It’s my order, kid.’

‘You’d probably die from sugar.’

‘Everybody’s gotta die from something.’

Mr. Stark absolutely killed the petulant child act.

Peter nodded, then took another spoon of his yoghurt, thoughts whirling. As Mr. Stark had said before, this could be their do-over. Another chance to introduce each other again properly and move along positively.

And another chance to learn more about one another.

Peter gestured to the store. ‘Do you come here often?’ he asked.

‘Sometimes,’ answered Mr. Stark. ‘I only come here because of Scott – don’t tell him I said that – because he has the nerve to be impressed _and_ unimpressed of me. Unbelievable.’

‘Hmm. Is there anything you’d like to know about me? Other than anything from, you know, what you’ve read in my files…’

‘I know the people at the labs thought it would be great to smash a human with a spider together, so hell, no,’ Mr. Stark replied instantly. Then he froze, seemed to consider something, then said, ‘Where do you live? I saw in one of the recent files that Stark Industries gave you a room to accommodate…’

‘I’m staying in a rented-out apartment in Queens,’ Peter said. ‘Income from both Stark Industries and the NYPD is enough for that, I guess.’

‘Ah. The “bird leaving the nest” kind of thing.’ A final slurp of his yoghurt, and Mr. Stark pushed away his cup and grabbed the soda.

Something about how Mr. Stark addressed his own company piqued Peter’s curiosity. He cleared his throat to get rid of the stickiness that had lodged itself there and asked, ‘Mind if I ask a personal question?’ At Mr. Stark’s nod, he questioned, ‘Who’s running your company? It really doesn’t seem like you do.’

A dark look crossed Mr. Stark’s face, and he hesitated. ‘Someone who I believe isn’t capable,’ he said in a low, hushed tone. ‘I can’t do anything about it, because his contract is tied to my father’s signature. You can’t exactly get a dead man to sign papers these days.’

Mr. Stark didn’t make any attempt to elaborate and instead stared into the depths of his cup, and Peter didn’t push for more. He could see the look of unease in the older man’s gaze, and he didn’t want to pry into matters like those. After all, Peter had his own fair share of questionable individuals in his life.

Looking up from his cup, Mr. Stark pointed out, ‘I heard that Ross has been in contact with you for quite some time. Is it just for investigative purposes, or…?’

‘Just for investigative purposes,’ clarified Peter. ‘He makes it seem I’m the only one capable of stopping something on such a large scale like the rogue superhumans. I mean, there are many other superhumans out there who can handle my job as easily, or better, than me.’ Peter sighed. ‘He’s crazy, really.’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’

Pushing his empty yoghurt cup away, Peter reached over for his journal and propped it open. He flicked through the pages and stopped on the notes he had collected earlier. Peter cocked his head to one side in thought, and asked, ‘Do you have any idea what could be causing superhumans to…act as they are?’ At Mr. Stark’s exasperated sigh, Peter elaborated, ‘I know, but it’s the thing that has us stuck together. The least we could do is share any information we have available.’

Mr. Stark grunted in agreement, taking a sip of his soda. ‘I went through notes on previous superhuman developments,’ he mused, ‘and compared them with the results from tests we used to examine the superhumans that have been locked up. There isn’t anything wrong with them – nothing in regards to their brain functions or physicality.’

Peter leaned back in his seat, bringing out his pen and tapping it against his fingers. ‘Back when we found Van Dyne in Pym’s house,’ Peter said, ‘I saw that one of their bathrooms had writing on the walls.’ Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow. ‘It had the same phrase written over and over,’ Peter continued, thinking back to that pristine bathroom. ‘It said “The Captain”.’

‘The Captain?’

‘What if there’s some sort of religion on the rise?’ questioned Peter. ‘And superhumans have started to put their faith in it and are acting accordingly to it?’

‘A new religion…’ pondered Mr. Stark. He shrugged, then slipped off his shades. Peter saw how the bluish sunglasses obscured Mr. Stark’s warm brown eyes. All Peter could see in them was a kind of soft contentedness.

Mr. Stark said, ‘Man’s greatest creation – aside from A.I. and androids – aren’t as different from humans as we thought, hmm?’ He took a large gulp from his cup, and asked, ‘You seem pretty comfortable in your detective job. Have you dealt with other rogue superhumans before we met?’

The pen in Peter’s hands froze.

He looked up at Mr. Stark, then at the window, showcasing the quiet street outside.

Peter could almost see Pietro, deranged and desperate, standing at the edge of the Toomes’ balcony, holding a crying Liz close to him on the other side of the glass; could almost see him as he raised his gun, the barrel zeroed in on Peter.

 _BANG!_ went the gun.

And down went Pietro in Peter’s arms.

‘A few months back,’ began Peter, ‘an unstable superhuman threatened to jump of the roof with a girl as hostage. I managed to save her…’ Peter didn’t bother to finish the rest; Pietro Maximoff was all over the news a few hours later, but he had disappeared from the world right after Peter left the Toomes’ residence.

Mr. Stark nodded. ‘I can see you’ve done all your homework, like me,’ he said. He stared at Peter, an eyebrow raised almost cockily. ‘I’ve got everything I know about you. Can I say the same about you? You know everything there is to know about me?’

Peter could see the metaphorical bait dangling in between them, innocent and helpless at first glance but drenched with the poison of future repercussions. Mr. Stark’s brown eyes were filled with an unbridled kind of conceitedness, a kind of test designed to see whether the teenager in front of him was worth his time.

Peter could always lie, deflect the unnecessary trouble. But…

…trouble always found Peter.

‘I know what everyone else knows,’ Peter stated, folding his hands over one another as he leaned over the table to adjust his position. ‘I know you graduated MIT at seventeen, summa cum laude and all. I know you have two Masters degrees and three PhDs in electrical and mechanical engineering and physics. I know you are the heir and the current proprietor of Stark Industries, courtesy of your dead father, but at the same has someone else managing as CEO, someone who you don’t approve of. And I know you are unwilling to be here; in fact, you feel obliged to take me out for a cup of ice-cream.’

Mr. Stark long and hard at Peter. He nudged his empty soda cup away and continued staring at Peter. His eyes might as well be lasers melting Peter’s brain to mush, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

‘So, what’s your conclusion, Junior Detective?’ Mr. Stark purred.

Peter only heard Thaddeus Ross asking the same question, with his white teeth flashing in his shark-like grin, lighting up his old, leathery face as he sat in some warm tropical world, alienating himself from the reality he had shoved Peter into.

 _What do you make of_ him _?_

Peter found that he could answer the question better when Ross wasn’t the one staring back at him.

‘I admit, working with you and your obviously personal problems will be an added challenge. But coupled with our knowledge and the skills we possess…’ Peter flashed Mr. Stark a confident (but short of cocky) smile at him. ‘…I think we’d work well together.’

Peter winked.

(It was probably Satan controlling him in that moment because his mind _did not_ tell his stupid eyelid to wink).

(The _one time_ his overconfidence decided to rear its stupid head).

‘Jeez, kid, you’ve already activated your damned playboy persona,’ Mr. Stark chuckled, scratching the curve of his bearded jaw as a genuine grin pulled at his lips. ‘At this rate, you’d be stealing all the girls in the neighbourhood.’

Peter let out an indignant and bemused scoff, turning away. He saw Mr. Stark’s eyes flicker over to the journal, and the older man asked, ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a journal.’

‘I’m not blind. What’s in it? I don’t think anyone starts writing from the centre of their diaries or whatever.’

Oh. Mr. Stark must have seen the notes Peter had written down on synthetic silk. Letting out a defeated sigh, Peter flipped over to the pages on the formulae as Mr. Stark slipped on his sunglasses again. Peter couldn’t ignore the heat over the tips of his ears as he watched Mr. Stark scan over the pages, reading through the ingredients like the salicylic acid and ethyl acetate compounds and strange methods like purifying the resulting mixture with silica gel.

Mr. Stark tapped on the frame of his glasses – Peter thought their blue tint looked brighter – as he asked, ‘You do chemistry at school?’

‘I do.’

‘And this thing actually works? Like actual spider silk?’

‘You said so yourself: I’m part spider. I can make it work. And, um, my apartment is littered with this web fluid. Some of their lifespans reach over two days.’

‘Mmm-hmm. And their purpose?’

‘Well, really…’ Peter rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to figure out a decent way to word his reasons. ‘The job. Of being Junior Detective, I mean, it gets dirty really quickly. People get hurt really quickly. I thought that by restraining anyone who causes trouble beforehand, it could help dampen collateral damage and injuries.’

Peter flicked out his wrist. ‘I was thinking of a gun to, you know, shoot the webbing. That doesn’t seem diplomatic to you, does it?’

Mr. Stark gave him a blank look.

‘Never mind, I’ll figure this out. Don’t steal my ideas, Mr. Stark.’

‘What? Me? _Psssshh_.’ Mr. Stark flapped a hand in denial. ‘I’m a man of my own great intellect. I don’t need a kid who walks up to me with an idea to revolutionise the world.’

‘Like that gauntlet?’

A questioning look from Mr. Stark’s end, and Peter clarified, ‘The one you used on Van Dyne. A gauntlet. Repulsor technology, or nanotechnology? Looked like both to me.’

Mr. Stark’s gaze softened, as if somewhat humbled to know a kid like Peter took the time to appreciate his work. 'It's a little bit of both, yeah. It's...a personal project of mine,' Mr. Stark said after a moment. 

'Unlike DUM-E, as you were saying earlier?'

'Shut up, smartass.'

Peter just rolled his eyes when his phone buzzed. He saw Mr. Stark glanced down at his own phone as Peter pulled out his device. It was a text notification, sent from the NYPD’s number. Peter unlocked his phone, opened his messages and scanned through the text.

‘There’s a new report of a suspected rogue superhuman case,’ Peter piped up. ‘The site is at Hell’s Kitchen.’ He gave Mr. Stark an amused look as he stood up from his seat, saying, ‘Look’s like you’ve already activated your precognitive sense, because at this rate, we’d be finding all the rogue superhumans before they overthrow society if you keep leading us to the right places.’

‘Hah-hah, very funny,’ Mr. Stark drawled. He followed Peter’s movements, picking up the yoghurt and soda cups and plopping them in the nearby trash can before they moved to leave. Their footsteps echoing quietly, Peter caught Scott’s gaze from the side, who was wiping down the empty tables.

‘Bye, Mr. Lang,’ Peter called, waving slightly.

‘Bye, midget,’ Scott said, throwing an unamused glare at him.

‘I can rat you out.’

‘Bye, teenaged detective-police officer.’

Peter saw Mr. Stark’s mouth twitch, as if he was trying to suppress a grin. Peter ignored it in favour of pushing the door to the entrance of the Baskin Robbins store open and striding outside, Mr. Stark on his heels.

The cold air and lonely street couldn’t do anything to dampen the warm, fluttery feeling in Peter’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pure fluff, my dudes :)


	6. ⌜The Maze of the Devil⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me watching chaotic DBH memes and playthroughs: Ah yes, the drama
> 
> :)

_**⌞Chapter 6⌝ ≎ ⌜The Maze of the Devil⌟** _

Ross couldn’t have picked a better time to start texting.

_> Ross, 4:17pm  
Are you on the case?_

Peter scrunched his nose at the text. He typed back:

_> Me, 4:18pm  
Yes, I am. We’re at the site_

_> Ross, 4:18pm  
Stark’s with you, I presume?_

_> Me, 4:18pm  
Yes, he is_

The stairwell Peter and Mr. Stark had found themselves in was dingy and old. Just like the rest of Hell’s Kitchen, it was covered in scribbles and scratches but looked neat enough in that iconic Hell’s Kitchen look. The building the NYPD had told them to investigate was large but quiet, with doors leading to apartments as they branched away from the stairwell.

_> Ross, 4:19pm_   
_I expect some results, Peter._   
_This can be the game changer that we’ve needed._

_Yeah, yeah, whatever works best for you, you grumpy old—_

‘Kid!’

Peter looked up from his phone, eyeing Mr. Stark, who was standing by a dark door at the top of the stairwell, just a few steps ahead of Peter. The older man was blinking at Peter behind his glasses, bemusement written over every other exposed part of his face.

‘Something more amusing than our mission?’ asked Mr. Stark.

Peter shook his head and slipped his phone away, cutting off every lingering thought related to Ross. ‘No, Mr. Stark. It was just Ross. He was checking to see if we were heading to the site.’

‘Huh.’ Mr. Stark scratched his nose in distaste. ‘Well, you just gonna stand there on the stairs?’

‘No!’ Peter said, internally surprised at the indignant and childish tone his voice took. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and said a quiet, ‘I’m coming,’ as he climbed after Mr. Stark.

They stood by the door to the topmost apartment, the door dull of colour and brass plating rusting slightly. The yellow lamp that hung over the stairwell was old and flickered like a candle, casting peculiar shadows that climbed the wall with long elongated fingers.

‘Who’s apartment does this belong to?’ asked Mr. Stark, looking up and down the clearly locked door.

‘Someone called Franklin Nelson,’ Peter replied. ‘The report that was attached to the text I got said that the neighbours kept hearing strange noises from inside. But Nelson had been staying at a different place in another part of the state the past few weeks…so there shouldn’t be any noise inside to begin with.’

‘A break-in?’ said Mr. Stark. Peter nodded in agreement, looking around the floor. It was empty, layered with dust and grime. Pen marks were scratched on the walls up to around waist-height, suggesting that a few kids appeared on the floor. There was a door opposite to the apartment they were told to go, with the door shut and the shouts of a Mexican family arguing in Spanish over who had taken the enchiladas by the stove.

‘The only reason we’re here is because a neighbour saw an armlet on a person who kept visiting this floor,’ Peter added. ‘They suspect a superhuman has been living here in the time Nelson has been away.’

‘Ooh, a break-in _and_ home theft,’ Mr. Stark quipped. ‘Funny combination we’ve got here.’

Peter remained silent, trying to hone his senses on the other side of the door. There was something inside, shuffling and scratching. Peter brought his hand up and knocked loudly on the door. _Nok, nok, nok._

They were met with silence.

Peter glanced at Mr. Stark, who was leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. He shrugged when Peter gave him a questioning look. Peter tried again, knocking on the door instead with the side of his fist. _Thud, thud, thud!_

‘Anybody home?’ Peter called out, pressing his face close to the seams of the closed door so that his voice could carry to the other side. Quiet on the other end, except for the faint scratching sounds. Peter knocked thrice again, yelling, ‘Open up! New York police!’

Silence, and then—

_Ka-THUD!_

Both Peter and Mr. Stark stiffened at the noise, straightening and glancing at each other with wide eyes. _Bingo_.

Peter never remembered giving Mr. Stark the authority to lead the investigation because Mr. Stark immediately pushed off from the doorframe and tapped his watch. The same scarlet gauntlet rippled to life over his hand as he pushed himself between Peter and the door, saying lowly, ‘Stay behind me.’

‘Got it,’ was Peter’s response, because he was unwilling to become a smudge of guts and blood on the wall as he heard the gauntlet whine with energy. They backed away until their backs were almost pressed against the neighbour’s door, with Peter almost squashed in between the wall and Mr. Stark’s rigid body.

Mr. Stark took aim, the glowing light in the centre of his palm brightening as he focused it on the door. A loud whine, and a flash of bluish-white energy—

The explosion rattled the corridor, and Peter collapsed to the ground as glass shards showered over him, his medical gown pooling around his legs as he cried out in alarm. The white of the room flashed red as the alarms whirred to life and shrieked in time with Peter’s sixth sense. The hot hiss of waning energy burned at his skin.

A soft rasp.

A hiccup.

A tear.

 _The Parkers_.

Peter unwrapped his arms from his head, wincing as small flecks of glass trickled into the seams of his gown. The corridor was quiet, the windows and door leading to the lab having exploded violently, tearing parts of the walls and ceiling away. Uncovered wiring sparked and hissed. In the smoky haze of the lab, Peter could see a bloodied figure lying limply on a desk, his slack face turned towards the radiation isotope generator.

Dr. Banner’s heart stayed silent.

‘ _Hhhh-ic!_ ’

There was the hiccupping. Banner was dead in the lab…where was it coming from?

Peter straightened, his frail and underdeveloped legs wobbling, avoiding the glass and the large chunks of debris as he moved through the wreckage. He was relatively unscathed; just a few cuts on his arms and the side of his face, ones that his enhanced metabolism could take care of. The alarms blared, and suddenly the emergency sprinklers sputtered awake, drenching everything in sight with cold water.

‘Mr. Parker?’ Peter croaked. ‘Mrs. Parker?’

The corridor remained silent.

That’s when he saw it. His sixth sense seemed to suddenly die when Peter saw a section of the wall lying on something spilling red. The red kept growing.

Peter’s throat suddenly felt as dry as sandpaper. ‘Mr. Parker?’ he tried again. ‘Mr. Parker? Ben? May?’

Hobbling, Peter sunk to his knees beside the growing sea of red, red, _red_ , and there was something hot, something sharp, clawing at his chest, digging its talons into Peter’s lungs. He pressed his hands against the debris and _pushed_. Pushed as hard as he could, as much as a nine-year-old superhuman boy could, trying to get as much damn power as he could to flow into his limbs to get to them, to _get to them_ , when he felt it give.

Suddenly Peter wished he hadn’t moved the wall.

The rubble slid to the ground with a loud _THOOM_ —

—and the door was blasted off its hinges.

Peter blinked himself back to the present. He was aware of the warmth radiating from not only the singed door, but from Mr. Stark, alive and breathing. Peter wasn’t at the growth facilities, no – he was in Hell’s Kitchen, on a case.

A very loud case, apparently.

The arguing in the neighbour’s apartment momentarily stopped as they, too, registered the sound of a door flying and crashing to the ground. (Peter heard someone ask, ‘ _Quién tiró la olla?_ ’)

Peter became conscious of his quick, almost raspy breaths, and the funny look Mr. Stark gave him when he turned to look at him. Peter quickly tried to slow his breathing and schooled an impassive expression as he looked up at Mr. Stark. He really shouldn’t get distracted on an investigation, especially now.

Raising his eyebrows at Peter’s silence, Mr. Stark said, ‘After you.’ He gestured to the space stretching in front of them.

The doorframe was smoking slightly, and the door lay further inside the now quiet apartment with a large smoking hole in its centre. Peter pushed out from behind Mr. Stark and started for the apartment, intent to push the already fading memories into the corner of his mind as he listened to the quiet hum of the older man’s repulsor gauntlet; Mr. Stark made no attempt to sheath it or disable it.

After pacing through the relatively small hallway, the apartment itself was rather spacious; in fact, bordering close to luxurious, if not for the fact of the large windows which let in the bright glow of nearby billboards. A coffee table and two sofas sat in the centre of the apartment, with a kitchen tucked away in a large corner on the other side of the hallway. Along the side of the apartment was a couple of cupboards, and beyond that was another stairway that led up to the rooftop balcony of the apartment block. There was a door on the other side of the room, which presumably led to a bedroom.

And flooding the entirety of the apartment were pigeons.

For a moment, they all stared at Peter and Mr. Stark with their dark, beady eyes, as they sat in their own poop, as if thinking, _We’ve been caught_. Then they collectively swarmed around the apartment, flapping and cooing and shrieking as they tried to get away from the two humans in the room.

‘Gah!’ Peter heard Mr. Stark cry. ‘What the hell? Why are there so many goddamn _pigeons_?’

Peter deflected a trio of pigeons who had turned to pecking his armlet. ‘I don’t know. Maybe whoever was here left a pack of seeds around?’

That seemed to be the case, at least – all the pigeons seemed interested in something that was littered across the ground, always returning to nipping something on the wooden floor and flying away if their position was disturbed.

Mr. Stark sighed and muttered something along the lines of, ‘Jesus, this place _stinks_ ,’ as he began to step through the apartment, waving his gauntlet at the birds that flew up into his face and tried to eat his glasses. Peter followed his actions, sweeping through the kitchen to spot anything out of the ordinary. There were a couple of shelves bolted into the wall, and a few jars and pots lining the countertop. In the corner of the countertop was a small pile of papers, stacked neatly.

Peter picked up the top file and skimmed through the title. It focused on the sudden spike in Extremis usage in the past few years:

“ _The Extremis stimulus drug hasn’t been on the market for quite some time. Created by Tony Stark and Maya Hansen, it was a form of genetic-manipulating nanotechnology designed to enhance the human body and enable it to achieve various feats, such as improving human physique._

“ _Despite its success, however, the casualty rate of Extremis volunteers pushed the government to ban the drug’s continuation in the market and to destroy remnants and research of Extremis. Over the course of five months, Extremis seemed to have left American life as we know it._

“ _Surprisingly, Extremis has made a return, originating in the heart of New York. Starting back in April 2016, there has been an increase in Extremis usage. Government officials are not able to identify where the Extremis is being created and shared with at this point in time._ ”

Peter’s eyes narrowed as he flicked through the file. Despite the paper lacking some of the detailed information Mr. Stark had provided, Peter wondered how someone had managed to scavenge these files.

The next file was peculiar, still. It was a blank sheet— wait, no, it wasn’t. With a pigeon digging its beak into his ankle, Peter ran a finger over the paper, and— there. A bump. Another bump, and another – a whole trail of bumps, all laid out in a specific pattern like stars mapped over the sky. Braille.

Whoever had been here was blind, or was associated with someone blind. Probably the latter, but there was no evidence suggesting that it wasn’t the former, either.

Despite not knowing how to read Braille, Peter took a picture of them, ensuring to highlight where the shadows fell to be able to translate them back at the NYPD precinct. Mr. Stark had vanished to some secret corner of the apartment, so Peter was left staring around the apartment. The white walls seemed to have been attacked by a large cat, leaving marks that resembled an octagonal maze. There was something written next to the image, but it was scratched out, like someone had cleaved the writing in two with a knife.

‘Looks like our suspect is gone,’ Mr. Stark piped up from somewhere near the stairs in the apartment. He was hovering over by some of the lower steps, gauntlet still raised. Behind the stairs was a poster – one promoting climate change, no less – but it went unnoticed by Mr. Stark.

Peter saw it, however.

And he saw the creases in the corner and the darkness that lingered behind the poster.

Peter strode over to the poster and sent up a torrent of pigeons. He reached behind the stairs and fiddled with the corner of the poster; it remained glued in place. Peter then pressed his fingers over the edges, feeling the way his skin immediately latched onto the papery material before he yanked at the poster again.

His adhesiveness must have done the trick because the poster ripped away from the wall with a satisfying _shrrrip_. Behind it was a section of a caved-in wall, no bigger than Peter’s arm but wide enough for him to see the underlying wooden foundations of the wall. Nestled inside the wall’s yellowish insulation was a small book.

Peter reached inside and pulled the book out. It was a little larger than Peter’s own journal, bound with red leather and filled with yellowed pages. He flicked it open, and saw the pages lined with slanted writing and the octagonal mazes; lines upon lines of numbers, like a string of code; and pieces of white paper imprinted with Braille glued onto them.

Other than that, it was just a bunch of nonsense.

‘Found anything?’ asked Mr. Stark, padding closer to look over Peter’s shoulder.

‘ _Croooooo_ ,’ said a pigeon.

‘Not you, bird brain.’

‘I don’t know, Mr. Stark,’ Peter began as he backed away from the wall, ‘but it looks like some kind of notebook. It’s filled with gibberish.’

‘All notebooks are these days,’ came the drawling reply. ‘Also, I found a library card.’ Mr. Stark hesitated as he looked at the name, before he said, ‘A…Matthew Murdock. Huh. I’ve heard of him back when I was kid – Murdock was one of the other superhumans in the growth facilities in, I don’t know, the 90s.’

‘The name rings a bell,’ Peter admitted. Mr. Stark hummed an agreement before handing it to Peter to see. The flimsy library card had a picture of this Murdock person: a young man with dark auburn hair and green eyes. His gaze was unfocused, like the picture was taken without him knowing. On the back of the card was a paper with more Braille on it.

Peter’s eyebrow rose. ‘Mr. Stark, was Murdock blind?’ he asked.

‘Um.’ Mr. Stark scratched his beard. ‘He wasn’t when I last saw him. Which was about twenty years ago, give or take five years or something.’

‘Hmm. Did you check the bedroom, sir?’

‘No, I didn’t. Why, you scared to see if Murdock’s been sleeping with someone?’

Peter had to let out a fake gagging noise to voice his displeasure as he moved to open the bedroom door. Just as he did, another burst of pigeons nearly knocked him over, if not for his sixth sense. He turned as they flew out from the bedroom at his sudden arrival, making loud _croooooo_ s as they went.

The bedroom was much more dishevelled than the rest of the apartment. The cream sheets were crumpled at the foot of the bed, and the blinds were drawn shut. Rugs were placed around the bed. Clothes were heaped up in piles in the corner of the room…

…and Peter could smell the scent of superhuman blood.

There was a door on Peter’s left, which he guessed led to the bathroom. Nonetheless he pushed the door open with a soft creak, secretly relieved that there weren’t any more pigeons roosting in here. It was a small bathroom lit up by the cool afternoon light, with a small window and a tiny shower. The smudged and dirty mirror was attached to a cabinet above the sink. Sitting by the toilet was a small, black bundled-up cloth.

And over the walls was another single phrase: _The Captain_.

How a blind man could write so neatly eluded Peter. But it was there nonetheless, dark and contrasting against the pasty white walls, like an inverted picture of lightning in the night sky. Like an ominous message whose meaning kept slipping away from Peter’s fingers.

Peter heard Mr. Stark walk up behind him, and face the wall Peter was facing. At the phrases. ‘Our new religion,’ Mr. Stark mused.

‘It’s the same thing Van Dyne wrote,’ Peter reminded him, running a finger along the scratches that formed a smaller maze. ‘If this _is_ a new religion, how is word getting around so quickly? And without anyone noticing?’

‘Beats me,’ Mr. Stark said quietly, shifting his weight onto his left foot.

Peter examined the bathroom again, his eyes landing on the bundled-up cloth by the toilet once more. They looked like cycling gloves, with the knuckles padded with some kind of cushioning material; it housed some of that sharp scent of superhuman blood…as well as human blood.

Peter looked back up at the writing at the wall, seeing that were written in a type of black marker. Straightening, Peter sidled up to the wall and pressed his face against its cold surface – much to Mr. Stark’s disgust – and took a quick sniff of the markings.

Fresh pen markings smelled acidic, sharp and sour. They clung to the air like hands grabbing for a lost loved one; always there, but always fading slightly as the days wore on.

Peter didn’t smell any of that.

The marking wasn’t fresh. In fact, the markings have been there for quite some time now.

‘No one’s been here for a while, Mr. Stark,’ Peter told the older man as he pushed off from the wall and away from the markings. ‘Murdock may have written this down when he first arrived, but I can’t be too sure unless we’ve taken some accurate tests.’

‘But that doesn’t explain the loud noise we heard earlier,’ Mr. Stark objected, gesticulating the rest of the apartment from his cramped position in the bathroom with Peter. ‘Was that Murdock? Or was it one of the birds?’

 _‘Croooooo_ ,’ said a pigeon.

‘Yeah, I’m betting it was you, too.’

‘Sir, I don’t think Murdock is actually here at the moment,’ Peter interrupted as he shuffled his way out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. ‘The way he has set everything up…it’s like someone going out for work and then coming back later.’ Peter tapped his chin and he asked, ‘Does Murdock have a job? Does he work in Hell’s Kitchen?’

‘Last time I checked, he was studying at Columbia Law School,’ Mr. Stark answered. ‘Could be lawyer or an attorney or he could have completely changed his profession.’

‘Well, whatever he does, he’s been here in the past twenty-four hours.’ Peter kicked at the pile of clothes in the corner of the room. ‘This is coated with superhuman blood _and_ human blood, just like some of the clothes in the bedroom. Any chance he’s beating people up, Mr. Stark?’

‘I’m horrible when it comes to analysing people.’

Peter dismissed his lie when his sixth sense hummed.

 _Up_ , it whispered.

Peter’s body reacted before his mind caught up. He found himself at the base of the stairs leading up to the roof-top balcony, the door shut. The massive swirls of dust had the light seeping in between the seams of the doors like a sheet of metal.

‘Kid?’ came Mr. Stark’s curious voice. ‘Spider-Boy?’

‘He goes to work,’ Peter said softly, ‘but he wears dark gloves and clothes covered in both superhuman and human blood. He breaks into this home specifically almost every day. So…when does he come back?’

The answer came in the form of the doors to the balcony flinging open, and a baton flying right toward Peter’s face.

Pure instinct ran like lightning through Peter’s nerves. Peter swiftly sidestepped and caught the baton with ease before throwing it at the pigeons.

That was probably a bad idea.

The pigeons swarmed upward in a tidal wave of feathers and shrieks, blinding Peter of who he presumed was Matthew Murdock. He heard the whistle of Mr. Stark’s repulsor gauntlet firing up just as his sixth sense rattled around his head.

Peter turned and was promptly kicked across the apartment. He landed harshly on the sofa in the living space, which almost immediately buckled underneath the force and toppled over sideways, sending Peter sprawling to the ground.

‘Murdock! That you?’ Peter heard Mr. Stark yell. Another _thwack_ , as if the baton had been thrown again, and a resounding hum of metal being struck by something, and then the patter of light and quick feet on the ground.

‘Stop!’ Peter cried, coughing up feathers and scrambling to his feet as he watched a man in a grey suit and red-tinted glasses rush past, black pointed shoes tapping against the floor as he ran, his blue armlet glinting. The auburn hair was undeniably the same tone as the photo on the library card. Matthew Murdock held a tight grip on his baton as he swung at Peter again, circular red shades flashing like the eyes of the Devil.

Peter ducked and avoided another wave of pigeons as he watched Murdock run up the stairs to the roof-top balcony again. Gritting his teeth, Peter gave chase and climbed the stairs two steps at a time, ignoring Mr. Stark yelling in the background. He burst onto the rooftop, the afternoon clouds having cleared away and bringing forth a blanket of blissful warmth. In the bright daylight, Peter saw Murdock leaping over the rooftop’s edge, rolling over his shoulder and back onto his feet on the neighbouring building’s roof.

Murdock moved like a ninja – light footsteps carrying him over large distances with his baton raised to balance him as he went. As he hurried after him, Peter could see Murdock’s head twitch to the side, and the baton suddenly whipped to the left, sending an outdoor air conditioning unit to tumble off the brick wall and right into Peter’s path.

Peter jumped over it expertly, looking up just in time to see Murdock bound over the building’s edge again. A bolt of panic at the thought of Murdock splattering to the ground in a puddle of guts, and Peter leaned over the edge, sixth sense ringing, trying to see—

‘You missed.’

Peter was somehow flung onto his back a few metres away, his jaw sore and his tongue feeling like it was shorn in half. Peter spat blood onto the gritty concrete beside him as he watched Murdock swing himself back onto the roof, baton pointing almost cockily at Peter’s perplexed expression. Before Peter could move, Murdock was gone again.

 _Rude_ , Peter thought as he clambered to his feet and ran after him.

From the above, Peter realised Hell’s Kitchen’s rooftops were as maze-like as the streets below. Buildings were of different heights with different accessories on top, like small air-con units and washing lines and rooftop water towers and, curiously, large slabs of bricks. Murdock wove between them as if he knew the route like the back of his hand, and Peter could only follow.

Then Murdock twisted himself in midair and dropped into an alley below, running along the wet concrete. When he did the same, Peter saw that Murdock had directed him to an old car disposal yard, with large piles of destroyed and crumpled cars and moving machinery. Frail wire fences stretched far and wide, but Peter couldn’t figure out just how large the yard was.

Ducking when Murdock threw a detached car door at him and sidestepping a moving forklift and its driver, Peter realised he probably needed a better plan than just _Catch Up with Murdock_.

(It was a very decent plan, but a very decent half-assed plan at most.)

Glancing at the pile of cars to his left, Peter raced up the uneven metallic surfaces, hearing the windshields crackle under his weight. Murdock skirted around the cars below, and Peter saw his chance. He leapt from the top of the pile, straightening his legs and aiming for an unsuspecting Murdock’s back.

But as if the other superhuman had his own sixth sense, Murdock simply twirled out of the way without looking as Peter came flying down. Reflexively (and not wanting to break his ankles) Peter landed on the soles of his feet, yelping, ‘Hey!’

Murdock merely grunted and called back, ‘You’re fast, I’ll give you that. But, kid, just stay out of my business. It doesn’t concern you.’

‘I’m from the New York police!’

‘Best I get going then.’ Then Murdock flicked up his baton and hauled himself onto the nearest building’s fire escaping, completely avoiding the wire fences and moving far too quickly for Peter’s liking.

Growling, Peter flipped over the fences and ran up to the building Murdock was currently running up. Without a second thought, Peter placed his foot to the side of the brick building and pushed off, pressing his other foot to the wall. He kept going – unsteadily at first, but quickly gaining speed as he ran up the side of the building.

A sliver of mirth bubbled in Peter’s chest – it wasn’t everyday someone like him could run up buildings with nothing but his feet. He saw Murdock’s flickering expression from just below, and Peter pushed himself to go a little faster.

Murdock made it to the top of the building, and so did Peter. Murdock had the audacity to look surprised when Peter tried to tackle him, his coat fluttering with the action. Murdock’s glasses went flying, snapping when they collided with the ground.

Peter looked into Murdock’s blank green eyes when the latter roughly shoved him away, his baton sending a painful strike to Peter’s ribs. Collapsing to the ground, blinking the stars from his eyes away, Peter tried to gain a better view of his surroundings when his sixth sense rippled.

He heard the sound of a repulsor gauntlet firing up, the _thwack_ of a baton, and Mr. Stark shouting obscenities at Murdock as he backed towards the edge of the building.

_Mr. Stark was at the edge of the building._

Peter’s eyes widened when Murdock gruffly pushed Mr. Stark away. Mr. Stark gave out a surprising yelp as his foot caught the edge of the building, and he toppled over and out of sight.

Peter’s heart dropped.

‘Mr. Stark!’ he yelled, scrambling to his feet – _God, not again, not again, don’t lose him_ – when he heard the repulsor gauntlet whirring. Mr. Stark’s gauntleted hand clasped tightly to the building’s edge, and Peter heard the older man’s loud pants of shock.

_He was alive. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s okay—_

‘Mr. Stark!’ Peter called again.

‘M’fine!’ came Mr. Stark’s muffled voice. The gauntlet gripped harder to the building’s edge as Mr. Stark hauled himself upward. Peter glanced at the older man’s dark hair. ‘Why don’t you go hang out with Mister Twinkle Toes, yeah?’

Peter glanced at Murdock, who made a slower attempt of running away once he heard Peter’s panicked shout. There was a flurry of emotions on Murdock’s face, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to care.

Murdock was simply not going to jog out of here for sending Peter’s colleagues over rooftops.

An unnamed fury coiled itself around Peter’s chest as he bolted towards Murdock, vaulting over the edge to a smaller building. Peter rolled along the ground and straightened to his feet, glaring at Murdock’s blank expression as the latter swung at Peter.

Sixth sense hissing, Peter caught the baton and yanked it out Murdock’s grip, snapping it into two before shoving him roughly into a door leading to the apartments below. Murdock tried to push Peter away, but Peter pressed his arm over Murdock’s neck and pinned him to the door.

Murdock stilled as Peter held a potential life-ending grip on him.

Peter could feel Murdock’s Adam’s Apple bob up and down as he swallowed. The superhuman grinned. ‘You’re good, kid,’ he commented, voice slightly raspy from the running and the limited amount of air Peter allowed him to breathe in.

‘Shut up,’ Peter hissed. ‘You didn’t need to be running away when all we could have done was _talk_.’

‘You’re from the NYPD,’ Murdock said, blinking unseeing eyes. ‘I have every reason to run away.’

‘And why is that?’

Murdock pursed his lips. ‘I can’t see your face,’ he started, ‘but I know you’re angry. I can hear it in your voice, and the way your heart beats.’ Murdock chuckled dryly. ‘I used to be like you, you know. Fighting for the law, for justice…it comes for a price.’ He gestured to his glassy eyes. ‘Justice took my sight because I defended the wrong people. I wonder what you are going to lose next.’

Grinding his teeth, Peter couldn’t help but frown even more at Murdock’s words. ‘Matthew Murdock,’ Peter said lowly, leaning in closer to make his point loud and clear, ‘you’ve been caught breaking into a home, and assaulting individuals of both human and superhuman origin. You have the right to remain silent, and you will be taken back to the NYPD precinct for further interrogation.’

Murdock’s lips twitched at the sound of his name, then his head cocked lightly to one side, as if listening to something. Peter heard something, too – a pair of footsteps, and loud gasping.

Peter turned to face Mr. Stark jogging up to them. He had discarded his glasses and looked winded, eyes wide and cheeks burning red. His breaths were loud and uneven, and Peter only remembered that the older man had just hauled himself form the edge of a building. The repulsor gauntlet had retracted back into his watch as Mr. Stark hurried closer.

‘Mr. Stark, are you alright?’ Peter asked softly.

Mr. Stark ignored him in favour of glaring heatedly at Murdock. ‘Don’t you dare move,’ he hissed at the superhuman. ‘I’ve had enough cardio for one day.’

Then Mr. Stark turned and slapped Peter.

The shock filled Peter with ice and froze him to the spot. His head whipped to the side to lessen the harshness of the blow, but its implication buried itself like a knife in his chest. His cheek throbbed a little as he turned to face Mr. Stark, who huffed in a seething rage.

Nothing. His sixth sense barely even _whispered_.

Peter started, ‘I—’

‘No!’ Mr. Stark yelled over him, cutting Peter off effectively. ‘No! Just, just— shut up, alright? You saw— _you saw_ that I was going to fall! And you just…you just pranced off with the daredevil here!’

‘But you said—’ defended Peter weakly.

‘I said _shit_ ,’ Mr. Stark hissed, the threats of their time together accumulating into something more menacing. His brown eyes narrowed to slits as he glowered at Peter.

‘It looked like you could handle yourself!’ said Peter, staring back with as much heat but failing by the second. ‘I thought you could save yourself…’

‘So what, you decided that maybe trying to arrest this fellow might compensate for me accidentally slipping and breaking my neck?’ demanded Mr. Stark. ‘Thought that chasing some rascal might save the world? Unbelievable!’ Mr. Stark rubbed a hand over his face as he muttered, ‘I guess all superhumans just don’t give a damn about importance.’

Peter flinched.

Mr. Stark stared back harshly, but Peter saw the instant flicker of guilt that slithered into his eyes. Peter could tell that Mr. Stark probably didn’t mean it, but…the words were like claws in Peter’s chest and a bullet to his head. A layer of lead that smothered any hope of being able to prove himself. Peter had wanted to be out there making one change at a time, to make his own choices, make the world a better place for people like him, and Mr. Stark, and Ned and Michelle and even Flash, but…

…if he of all people couldn’t make a difference, maybe superhumans just didn’t have the capacity to change.

He was probably no better than the ones he helped lock up and jail.

The older man turned away and instead focused on Peter’s arm pinning Murdock to the door. Peter had completely forgotten the superhuman was there when Murdock finally spoke up, saying softly, ‘I believe this is not my place to stay.’

Peter’s mind was silent, save for the quiet hum of his sixth sense, as he stepped away from Murdock. The superhuman cast a funny look at Peter, as if wondering why he wasn’t being arrested. He breathed in a large breath, before moving away from Peter and Mr. Stark. A quiet moment passed, and Murdock immediately ran, vaulting over the building edge and disappearing without a trace.

The quiet turned into something bitter when Peter realised what he had done, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty about letting Murdock go, or facing a raging Ross the next time they spoke. The guilt in his gut was purely from misjudging Mr. Stark, for not being able to save a man who had needed his help. He strayed from his own goal and moralities, and it sickened him to his core.

Peter wanted nothing more than to cry and apologise, but he pressed his arms to his sides and stood still. Nothing could compare with the guilt that built up like a clogged pipe inside Peter.

Not losing Murdock. Not facing the repercussions of his actions. Not even when Mr. Stark grumbled something and turned away from Peter.

Not even being alone drowned the guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')


	7. ⌜Take Three⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

_**⌞Chapter 7⌝ ≎ ⌜Take Three⌟** _

Work at the NYPD precinct ended quietly. Facing Ross’ wrath was more or less tolerable, but Peter’s mind was elsewhere entirely as the man bore down on him with as much ferocity as he could from behind a laptop screen.

‘Hello, Mr. Ross,’ Peter said, trying to keep the depressed and nonchalant tone from his voice.

Ross’ eyebrows twitched. ‘Hello, Peter,’ he greeted stiffly, still sitting in that chair of his in that office in the middle of somewhere warm and tropical. ‘I heard about the case with Murdock.’

If Peter hadn’t been inside the lobby of the Stark Industries tower sitting in those plush chairs again, he might have well just smacked himself into a wall in frustration. ‘Yes, I’m sure you know how that turned out.’

Ross nodded, ignoring the sliver of spite in Peter’s tone. ‘So, first of all, congrats for finding that rogue superhuman,’ Ross began. Peter was about to argue but Ross continued. ‘Did you find anything new when you went to investigate?’

Lots of things were found, including an army of pigeons.

‘There was a diary, Mr. Ross,’ Peter started, ‘but it was encrypted. Both with code and Braille. It might take weeks to fully decipher it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The walls of the home Murdock was staying in were covered with markings that resembled labyrinths,’ Peter told him bluntly. ‘And he’s apparently obsessed with The Captain as well.’

‘The Captain?’

Peter blinked. ‘Oh. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, Mr. Ross; apparently, it’s some sort of myth that is circulating within the superhumans. I haven’t come close to figuring who or what The Captain is.’

Ross nodded, then turned his cold eyes towards Peter. ‘You came very close to apprehending Murdock,’ Ross said, ‘and now he’s completely vanished. A pity you let him get away.’

‘He was incredibly fast,’ Peter lied. ‘I simply couldn’t keep up with him.’

Ross raised an eyebrow, but continued no further. ‘And how’s your partner work with Mr. Stark, hmm?’

That’s what Peter had been trying to avoid. The afternoon’s events hadn’t faded from his mind; in fact, they continued plaguing him because Peter had only one goal in his mind: protect everyone. He’d gone ahead and left Mr. Stark dangling on the edge of a building, and he hadn’t done anything. If only Peter could turn back time and apologise or bash his head against a pole and avoid the case altogether.

Alas, this is why no one gets good things.

‘He’s unpredictable,’ Peter said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth, either. Peter figured that Tony Stark was an overall neutral man, and if you had gotten on his good side, the man returned the goodwill as well. But Peter hadn’t always gotten on Mr. Stark’s good side; Peter would have done something and Mr. Stark would immediately pull up a façade. The problem was, most of them time, Peter didn’t know what would trigger him, but when he did, the man would go off.

Like today. Ugh.

‘Working with him will be a challenge,’ Peter continued, rubbing the bride of his nose.

‘Remember, Peter,’ Ross said, ‘there are still more rogue superhumans out there. It’s only a matter of time before the media finds out.’

‘I _will_ solve this investigation, Mr. Ross,’ Peter assured. ‘I won’t disappoint you.’

Pursing his lips, Ross leaned back in his chair, and raised an eyebrow when Peter’s phone buzzed. ‘Is that a new case?’

‘Yeah, yes, it is,’ confirmed Peter, glancing at the new report that was sent to him on his phone.

‘Well, then, best if I don’t disrupt you, hmm?’ Ross chuckled, sounding as if he knew something Peter didn’t. ‘Cheers, Peter, and good luck.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Ro—’

The laptop showcased a dark screen as Ross disconnected from the video call before Peter could have properly said bye. Peter stared at the laptop, before reaching over and closing it shut. Sighing, Peter straightened and gripped the laptop as he made his way to the front desk of the Tower. He slid the laptop to the woman behind the desk before glancing up at the stairs on the other side of the lobby.

Stairs that should lead to Mr. Stark’s home, right?

Without another thought, Peter made his way to the stairs and started climbing. He dimly wondered why he hadn’t used the elevators. Then he remembered that the elevators needed a special key if one wanted to visit Mr. Stark’s residence. As far as Peter knew, the only person he’d seen with that key was Colonel Rhodes, and he hadn’t been here for a while now.

Besides, Peter could use the extra time when he used the stairs.

A wave of thoughts suddenly flooded Peter’s empty skull. Things like, had Mr. Stark calmed down? Would he even want to look at Peter, let alone invite him in? What if Mr. Stark was standing by the door with his gauntlet out and shot Peter back down the stairs?

 _Quiet_ , the logical part of Peter snapped. _Just apologise. If he hasn’t forgiven you, that’s fine. Just investigate on your own. It’s better that way._

‘No one gets hurt,’ Peter whispered to himself.

After a long while of silence and at least sixty-three floors, Peter heard the first sounds of someone familiar. Well, something familiar.

Peter strode up the sixty-fifth flight of stairs when he saw the small crane-like robot, raising a hydraulic arm to greet Peter; its claw whirred open and shut, as if it were waving.

‘Hey, there,’ Peter told it, waving back. ‘No, I’m not hurt this time.’ The robot beeped and clicked, turning around on its slow wheels to glide alongside Peter. Its arm was smooth and matte black, with a few wires curling out from the claw and disappearing into the casing at its base.

‘Actually, yeah, I am hurt,’ Peter told the robot. At the robot’s curious clicks, Peter elaborated, ‘On the inside. My heart. Feels like someone speared it.’

_Breeeeeeep?_

‘No, not really,’ Peter clarified, purposefully slowing his steps to let the robot’s wheels get a firmer grip on the stairs, before moving along together.

_Breee-eeeep. Breee-eeeep?_

‘Where am I going?’ When the robot’s claw twirled around in confirmation, Peter said, ‘I’m going to find Mr. Stark. We have a new case; trying to find another superhuman.’

The robot tapped Peter’s armlet. _Reeeeep?_

‘Yeah,’ agreed Peter. ‘Exactly.’

For a while, Peter chatted randomly with the robot, talking about things that popped into his mind, but for what reason, he didn’t know. It was…somewhat nice, to talk to someone who could empathise, even if they could only communicate with beeps and whirrs. The little robot was a nice and friendly companion.

Until they got to the doors leading to Mr. Stark’s residence.

The hydraulic arm made confused-sounding whirrs as Peter strode closer to the doors. They were large, glossy and white, an obvious difference to the grey-tone walls and stairs throughout the Tower. There were no windows on this floor, so Peter couldn’t see the dark night sky and the lights of nearby buildings outside.

‘Is Mr. Stark inside?’ Peter asked, pointing to the doors. The little robot chirped, signalling an affirmation. ‘Well, can I go inside? Is there a doorbell or anything?’

Suddenly the little robot was not the nice and friendly companion Peter thought it was. The hydraulic arm reached out and clamped around Peter’s wrist, gently pulling him back as it let out aggressive beeping.

‘I— oh, um, okay,’ Peter said confusedly, prying his wrist from the robot’s claw and moving back towards the door, only for the robot to snag his hand again, beeping frantically.

_Breeeeeeep! Breeeeeeep! Reeeeeeee—!_

‘Hey, hey! Listen! I need to see if Mr. Stark’s okay!’ Peter told the robot, trying to pull away from the robot’s claw, the little robot tightening its grip on him. He knew he should probably use his superhuman strength, but he didn’t want to risk damaging the hydraulic claw.

The little robot made no attempt of letting go, and that was when a faint memory surfaced from the depths of Peter’s mind. He remembered sitting at his desk at the NYPD precinct with Mr. Stark sitting across from him. How he told Peter that the little robot strolling around on the stairways was initially going to be a household product, but R&D had messed up the design. And so came forth—

‘DUM-E!’ Peter said. ‘That’s your name!’

The robot shuddered to a stop, tilting its claw upwards as if to see Peter’s face, dragging Peter’s hand along with the action.

Peter grinned and raised his free hand in a placating gesture. ‘See?’ he said calmly. ‘I know your name – I’m a friend of Mr. Stark’s.’

 _At least, I think I still am_ , Peter thought.

DUM-E seemed to think about it, before unclamping Peter’s wrist and moving backwards a little, letting out sceptical beeps.

‘Listen, DUM-E,’ Peter told it, ‘I just want to see if Mr. Stark’s here. I kind of need him to…help me with an investigation. And to make sure he’s alright. Our afternoon was…a bit grizzly.’

DUM-E chirped in thought for a few moments, then hesitantly rotated about its base. Peter watched as the hydraulic arm reached out and tapped at a section of the wall beside the door. It was a shade lighter than the wall, with a small keypad and a slot that looked about the size for a key that Peter hadn’t noticed until DUM-E had pointed it out.

‘I don’t have a key,’ Peter said. ‘Oh, unless it’s that same key for the elevator. Ugh, that’s just great.’

_Breeeeeeep._

‘Yeah, thanks anyway. But…Mr. Stark _is_ here, right?’ DUM-E’s claw bobbed up and down in confirmation. ‘Oh, so he’s just ignoring me,’ said Peter. ‘Fair enough. Okay, so I’ll just have to find another way in.’

DUM-E rolled up next to Peter and its claw patted him on the shoulder. Peter smiled softly, patting the hydraulic arm in return. ‘You know, DUM-E is kind of a deprecating name. Like, “dummy”. How did you even agree to that?’

An indignant whirr from DUM-E.

‘Yeah, yeah, alright.’

_Breeee-eep?_

‘How will I get in?’ Peter tapped his chin in thought. ‘I don’t know. Hopefully not through a window or something. I might ask someone from the front desk.’

* * *

‘I just had to say “hopefully not through a window”,’ Peter groaned.

Not even five minutes ago, Peter had promised DUM-E that he wouldn’t do anything reckless. But all Peter had done was descend a few floors down, climb out an already-open window and stick to the side of the Stark Industries tower. There was so much irony in this one situation that Peter could have filled the Mariana Trench with it.

The night wind reached out to tousle Peter’s hair and sent his coat (and that ridiculous tie) flapping around his form as he clung to the side of Tower. The building’s smooth metallic tiles were cold beneath his fingers. Rain had started to fall not too long ago, making the surface slick and all the more dangerous.

‘Great going, Parker,’ Peter told himself as he crawled up the building. ‘Very diplomatic. Even with your sixth sense, you’re going to be blasted to next week.’

Peter avoided as he crawled upward, mentally counting the respective floors he passed with every window that went by. He guessed he was somewhere up in the eighties or nineties, where the wind was a lot crueller than below. Peter had to press himself to the walls to keep from being yanked off by the wind, and his armlet flickered in response to the cold air. 

Glancing around, Peter saw there weren’t many openings on the next few levels. A little further to his left was a long but narrow window, separated into smaller sections each a metre wide. Peter scuttled over to it and peered through the dark window.

Whatever was inside couldn’t be seen properly because it was darker in there than it was outside. Peter craned his neck to look from another angle, and his heart almost stopped when he saw a single light on in what appeared to be a cluttered room.

Mr. Stark was lying on the floor, dressed in casual clothes. Unconscious.

What happened? Was he injured? _Was he dead?_

That one question sent Peter spurring into motion. He banged his fist against the window, hearing the glass shudder as he yelled over the wind, ‘Mr. Stark?!’

The man barely stirred.

 _Alright_ , thought Peter. _Force entry_.

Peter leaned a little away from the window and shifted into a position where his arm lay above the glass. He brought his elbow back and slammed it against the glass. It held strong, but Peter could hear the strain in the sturdy material. Peter hit at the glass again, and again, before finally the window snapped apart, and glass rained into the room inside with a loud clatter.

A quiet beeping hummed to life at the sound of broken glass and faded just as quickly. Warm air burst from inside and into Peter’s face, making him squint at the sudden, but he ignored it. He pressed his hand against the area just above the broken window and manoeuvred himself to slide through the jagged space he had created.

Glass shards cracked and broke against Peter’s coat as he dropped into the dark room. Warm air immediately swirled around him in a comforting embrace. Despite having enhanced senses, his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet, and Peter’s gaze immediately latched onto Mr. Stark’s prone form under the only beam of light.

Peter immediately moved forward to reach the older man when his sixth sense wriggled. Peter froze, listening to his sixth sense as he reached out in the dark. His hand pressed against something cold and smooth – a tool of some kind, resting on a table. Peter’s hand glided over the table’s surface, bumping into something lighter, which rolled over and landed noisily onto the ground.

The lights in the dark room flicked on, covering everything with a cool white glow. Peter covered his eyes with a hand as he peered around the room, slightly in awe. It looked like a laboratory, or a workshop – a little bit of both, actually. There were a number of workbenches covered with an assortment of items and tools, and small cupboards nestled under the tabletops. Around the edges of the workshop were more tables and cabinets, but these ones held bottles of chemicals and metals, tucked neatly against the walls.

Peter would have kept gazing around the room had he not been interrupted.

‘ _State your business_ ,’ a cool voice demanded.

On pure instinct, and because his sixth sense hadn’t rung any bells in warning, Peter leapt up and pressed himself against the ceiling in alarm, his hands and feet gripping the somewhat dusty ceiling. ‘Who’s there?’ he called, once he had calmed his jumping nerves.

‘ _State your business_ ,’ the voice said again. Peter noted the calm, male British accent.

‘I, um, uh—’

‘ _Peter Parker, superhuman, age seventeen_ ,’ the voice said. ‘ _Junior Detective at the New York Police Department. Education at Midtown School of Science and Technology. Known superhuman abilities include—_ ’

‘Aah! Wait!’ Peter unlatched himself from the ceiling, landing quietly on the ground and raising his hands in the air as if he was about to arrest himself. ‘Wait, how do you know all that? Who are you?’

‘ _I am Just A Rather Very Intelligent System, Tony Stark’s personal A.I., though most call me J.A.R.V.I.S._ ,’ the voice said. ‘ _State your business_.’

‘Um,’ Peter said, rubbing his elbow. ‘I came here for Mr. Stark, actually. I wanted to see if he was alright after…’ Peter wondered how J.A.R.V.I.S. would handle the news of their owner being left stranded on the edge of a rooftop. ‘…our afternoon investigation.’

The lights flickered, as if the A.I. was contemplating what to do with a superhuman in Mr. Stark’s workshop. ‘ _Are you here to assist Mr. Stark?_ ’

‘Well, yeah! What happened to him?’

‘ _He is unconscious_ ,’ J.A.R.V.I.S. said bluntly. ‘ _His blood alcohol levels are at 19%, and he has been unconscious for thirty-eight minutes. I suggest sobering him as quickly as possible to prevent any permanent damage_.’

Peter raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Why do you want me to help him?’ he asked not unkindly, but curiously. ‘I’m sure he has already told you about what happened in the afternoon today. He probably wants to murder me if he sees me.’

The lights flickered again, before J.A.R.V.I.S. replied with, ‘ _He has suggested exacting revenge on you, and I can only offer my sympathies. But I believe Mr. Stark has more faith in you than anyone else at the moment._ ’

‘Faith in me?’

‘ _Mr. Stark may suffer memory loss if no action is taken after forty-five minutes_.’

‘Right, sorry.’

Peter navigated through the maze of workbenches before kneeling beside Mr. Stark. The man seemed to have collapsed while walking barefoot into the workshop, a dead giveaway being his position: lying face-first on the ground, and with his legs tangled in his sweatpants.

Gently, Peter turned Mr. Stark over onto his back so he could get a better view at the tired, weary face. Part of Peter felt a lot more guilty at seeing the man so exhausted, knowing that a percentage of that was caused by him. Peter hovered his fingers by Mr. Stark’s nose, relieved to feel the slow puffs of the man’s breath on them. The scent of Scotch, like the one Mr. Stark had drank back at Jimmy’s Bar when they first met, was evident on the man’s breath, and his grey shirt. Further away from Mr. Stark’s outstretched hand, past the door leading outside from the workshop was said bottle of Scotch, lying in a puddle of golden alcohol.

Peter leaned forward, listening to the beats of Mr. Stark’s heart. The rhythm was off, much too quick, but a lot steadier than most drunkards Peter had seen in his life.

But the most chilling piece of evidence Peter found was the item clutched in Mr. Stark’s hand, the one that was pressed uncomfortably under his back. A gun – a magnum revolver – with only one bullet in its barrel.

 _Russian roulette_ , a small voice whispered.

‘Did Mr. Stark always have this gun?’ Peter asked softly, peeling back one of Mr. Stark’s eyelids to see if he wasn’t suffering a concussion of sorts on top of his alcohol intoxication.

The light flickered as J.A.R.V.I.S. responded, ‘ _It is not my place to say_.’

Peter nodded, partially surprised that J.A.R.V.I.S. willingly deflected the question, and moved forward to pry the gun from Mr. Stark’s lax fingers. He tossed it onto a workbench and turned his attention back to the man in front of him. He should just…wake him up, right? That’s what you should when someone passed out from having too much alcohol, right?

Peter groaned when he realised that the NYPD had no experience with passed out individuals.

‘Mr. Stark?’ he said softly.

The man barely so much as twitched.

Gently, Peter patted Mr. Stark’s cheek, internally cringing at the cold and slack skin under his fingers. This time, Mr. Stark grumbled something, but the words were slurred. His eyelashes fluttered slightly. ‘Wake up, Mr. Stark,’ Peter told him, a little louder.

Mr. Stark just squeezed his eyes shut tightly and proceeded to ignore Peter’s existence, mumbling something close to, ‘ _Go away, trying to die here_.’

The world had once said, and Peter quoted, _peace was not an option_.

Purposefully holding back his strength, Peter slapped Mr. Stark across the face. (He wasn’t going to admit it, but it felt strangely fulfilling to slap Tony Stark of all people in the face.)

‘It’s me!’ Peter almost yelled at the partially conscious Mr. Stark. ‘It’s Peter!’

Mr. Stark’s eyes flipped open and he yelped, his gaze immediately flicking towards Peter before losing focus again. His head flopped back towards the tiled ground and he let out an ungodly groan, as if the past events had decided to reappear in his hazy mind like flashcards.

He was awake, so that was good. Now all Peter had to do was un-drunk him. Easier said than done.

Peter slipped his arm under Mr. Stark’s back, keeping his other hand firm on the older man’s wrist as he said, ‘I’m going to try and sober you up, Mr. Stark.’

‘Hey!’ was Mr. Stark’s exasperated response. ‘Leave me alone, you leeching superhuman…’

‘It’s for your own safety!’

‘Get the hell outta my house!’

Peter sighed and straightened to his feet, hauling Mr. Stark with him. With his superhuman strength, Mr. Stark’s lax and uncooperative body wasn’t at all too heavy to carry. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,’ Peter said, ‘but I need you. Actually, not really, but I thought it was a good idea to check on you after what happened today…’

‘Ugh, all the more reason to get out of my tower!’ groaned Mr. Stark, head lolling on his shoulders. He tried to pull himself from Peter’s grip, but he was too weak and he merely almost tripped over his own feet.

Righting Mr. Stark again and preventing him from slamming his head against the door as they shuffled out of the workshop, Peter looked up to the ceiling, hoping for some advice. ‘Um, Mister J.A.R.V.I.S.?’ he called uncertainly. ‘Do you know where the bathroom is?’

‘ _Past the living space, down the hall and through the first door on the left, Mr. Parker_ ,’ the A.I. responded immediately.

‘Thank you. And it’s just Peter, by the way.’

‘ _Most welcome, Peter_.’

Peter glanced at the area in front of him as he attempted to drag Mr. Stark to his bathroom. The living space was, in fact, huge. Probably the size of Peter’s entire apartment. There were a few large lounges and chairs, and a coffee table that sat in the middle. The wall was completely covered by tinted windows, which was probably why Peter couldn’t find them when he was crawling up the side of the building.

‘ _Urghhh_ ,’ Mr. Stark gurgled. ‘J.A.R.V.I.S., where’s DUM-E?’

‘ _Outside, sir_.’

‘Send him in. I want to see him throw Peter out the window again.’

‘That’s probably a very bad idea,’ Peter said, listening to the doors on the other side of the apartment opening and the slow hum of DUM-E’s moving wheels.

‘Shut it, I’m talking to my one trusted friend.’

Peter kept quiet and continued to pull an unsteady Mr. Stark through the latter’s home, weaving around lounges and avoiding hazardous items on the floor. They had only reached the hallway when Peter saw DUM-E rolling up to them, his hydraulic arm whirring.

‘I’m being ganged up on,’ Peter muttered quietly.

Mr. Stark ignored him and yelled, ‘DUM-E! Attack the miscreant!’

DUM-E chirped in confusion. His claw clicked open and shut in hesitation, but Mr. Stark misunderstood the action as a display of hostility. ‘Good boy,’ he squeaked, his head rolling onto Peter’s.

Pushing Mr. Stark’s head away, Peter trudged forward. Just like J.A.R.V.I.S. had said, the bathroom’s door stood propped open on Peter’s left. Peter kicked it open a little wider and pulled Mr. Stark in with him. The bathroom was spacious, and at first glance without the lights on, it reminded Peter of the bathroom in Henry Pym’s house. The walls were white, while the tiled floor alternated between black and white. The bathroom sink, cabinets, mirror and a toilet took up one side of the bathroom while a large bathtub and shower head sat by the wall opposite to Peter. Tucked in the corner was a circular shower, the surrounding glass smooth like water.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ Mr. Stark slurred a little, but it seemed as if he was unaware of himself speaking.

Before Peter could grope around for a switch in a new burst of panicked energy, the lights flicked on automatically. Peter thought it narrowed down to either motion sensors or J.A.R.V.I.S. assisting Peter in helping Mr. Stark, but he quickly dismissed it. Thinking quickly, Peter directed Mr. Stark towards the far side of the bathroom and gently pushed the latter into a sitting position on the edge of the bathtub.

Mr. Stark’s arms shot out and he balanced himself against the bathroom wall, preventing himself from slipping into the bathtub. ‘I don’t wan’ a bath, thanks…’ Mr. Stark huffed as he tried to push himself back onto his feet, but Peter held his ground and gripped Mr. Stark by the shoulders.

‘Sorry, Mr. Stark, you’re not going to be any help if you’re this drunk,’ Peter said, shoving Mr. Stark back into the bathtub with a slippery _thud_.

Mr. Stark’s legs flopped over the edge of the bathtub, and the man looked up at Peter with a disbelieving look. He opened his mouth to groan out a retort when J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke up, ‘ _Sir, it is for your own safety_.’

‘Screw my safety, I want out,’ grumbled Mr. Stark. Peter was about to suggest something else when he heard a rumble from the water pipes. Instinctively, Peter pushed himself away when the showerhead shuddered and a stream of water gushed out. _FWAAAAASH!_

Mr. Stark hollered out curses when he was hit with the full force of the freezing water, immediately getting drenched as he slipped further into the bathtub. Peter’s hand flew up to cover his mouth as he tried to stifle the unsuspecting snickering that bubbled up in his throat. Unless he somehow gained elemental control over water, Peter guessed J.A.R.V.I.S. had a metaphorical hand in this.

‘TURN IT OFF!’ Mr. Stark almost screamed at him, reaching up to shield his face from the onslaught of water. ‘TURN IT OFF, TURN IT OFF!’

‘Okay, okay!’ Peter looked around for a knob, and found a pair tucked in the very corner of the bathtub. He reached over, his sleeve soaking up water, and turned the closest knob.

It only made the water rush out faster.

Mr. Stark yelled, ‘ _OH MY GOD, TURN IT OFF!_ ’ just as Peter screeched, ‘ _OH NO, I’M SORRY!_ ’ Peter furiously scrabbled forward to turn the other knob, and to both men’s relief, the water shut off.

The bathroom became quiet now that there was no more water running. The lights flickered as if J.A.R.V.I.S. was laughing silently. Mr. Stark spat out a mouthful of water and wiped a hand over his face to get rid of the water dripping down from his sopping wet hair, panting wildly. When he looked up, Peter saw there was barely any trace of drowsiness left in Mr. Stark’s eyes.

Eyebrows furrowed, and as if registering Peter’s existence for the first time, Mr. Stark asked, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Peter couldn’t help but chuckle quietly at Mr. Stark’s perplexed expression. ‘There was a homicide case assigned to me nearly an hour ago. I considered going on my own, but I wanted to see if you were okay.’

‘ _Peter entered through Workshop 3’s window, sir_ ,’ J.A.R.V.I.S. supplied helpfully.

‘Well, I saw you passed out on the floor, so what could I do?’ asked Peter, ignoring the A.I.’s input.

Mr. Stark only groaned in distaste as he struggled to haul himself back out of the bathtub and onto his feet. ‘Jeez, I must be the only guy in the world that’s gets assaulted in his own home by his own superhuman fanboy,’ he grumbled loudly. Peter leaned in to help Mr. Stark when the latter suddenly asked, ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

 _I wish I could, but I can’t_ , Peter thought. _You were dragged into this mess that I’m trying to clean up. You shouldn’t deserve this._

Instead, Peter said, ‘The NYPD is picky about who is paired up with who during an important investigation like this.’

‘Well, I don’t give a crap about your goddamn investigation,’ Mr. Stark bit back.

‘Mr. Stark,’ Peter started, ‘you’re not yourself. Maybe you should—’

‘Beat it!’ snapped Mr. Stark, standing up a little too quickly. ‘You heard me the first three million times: get out of my home! My tower, too!’ He wobbled on his feet, and Peter gripped Mr. Stark’s shoulders and lowered him back to the edge of the bathtub. He made no effort to move again.

Peter sighed, turning away. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘It probably wasn’t interesting anyway.’ He turned back around again and raised an eyebrow at Mr. Stark’s exasperated expression. ‘A man found dead in a – mind you – _top secret facility_ owned by _S.H.I.E.L.D._ , of all places. Guess they’ll have to solve the case without us…or me, ‘cause the NYPD is so very picky…’

Peter slowly strode towards the door as Mr. Stark scoffed. ‘You know, it probably wouldn’t do any harm if I go get some air,’ Mr. Stark said a little lightly, mimicking Peter’s teasing tone. ‘Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S., why don’t you help the miscreant grab my Thursday outdoor clothes – it’s Thursday, right?’

‘ _I can confirm that today is Thursday, November 6th, sir_.’

‘Nice.’ Mr. Stark glowered at Peter, then gestured to his soaking form. ‘Do you mind?’

‘I— um, sorry, Mr. Stark. I’ll grab your clothes for you…’ Peter trailed off, hurrying from the bathroom and partially closed the door behind him. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and sighed. He only glanced up at DUM-E’s chirping, and he let himself smile dryly.

‘How did I get myself into this?’ Peter murmured quietly as he moved away from the hall.

‘ _Need I remind you that you climbed in through the window at 8:36PM?_ ’ J.A.R.V.I.S. asked calmly.

‘Oh wow, thanks for reminding me.’

‘ _My pleasure_.’

‘Oh, um, can you direct me to wherever Mr. Stark’s wardrobe is?’

‘ _Mr. Stark’s wardrobe is located in his bedroom_.’

Patting DUM-E as he went, Peter followed J.A.R.V.I.S.’s directions that led him to Mr. Stark’s bedroom. This fact alone filled Peter with apprehension. How on earth did these events unfold so that he, Peter Parker of all people, was about to waltz into _the_ Tony Stark’s bedroom?

The universe was truly a fickle thing.

J.A.R.V.I.S. directed Peter to a spiral stairwell in the corner of the living space. Peter had climbed up two floors when the A.I. told him that Mr. Stark’s bedroom was on the next level. The floors between the bedroom and the living space occupied another few workshops and a theatre-like room. Peter glanced around the topmost floor, listening to J.A.R.V.I.S.’s instructions on heading to the closest room, when his eyes landed on the small corridor.

It linked Mr. Stark’s bedroom with a small area that was filled with boxes. They were taped shut and stacked haphazardly upon one another. Beyond the small area was another room with a door, closed firmly.

The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood on end as he stared at the door.

It was quiet on this floor, he realised. Absolutely silent.

‘ _Peter?_ ’ came J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice, a little insistent. ‘ _Please head into Mr. Stark’s bedroom_.’

‘Sorry,’ Peter managed, unable to draw his eyes away from that closed door at the end of the corridor. His feet moved of their own accord, and Peter finally pulled himself away and pushed open the door leading to Mr. Stark’s bedroom suite.

It was large, like everything in Mr. Stark’s home – what exactly wasn’t? The bedroom had a king-sized bed with slightly crumpled sheets thrown over the top and had twin bedside tables on either side; a window with its automated blinds drawn shut; and a wardrobe that seemed fitted into the wall. A door on the far side of the room probably led to a bathroom suite.

Peter moved towards the wardrobe and slid the door open, glancing at his rumpled appearance in the built-in mirror. He looked both tired and in shock, which wasn’t too far off of what Peter was feeling.

Peter directed his attention to the expanse of clothes dangling on clothes hangers. There were mostly suits and buttoned shirts, but towards the end were more casual shirts and jeans, stuff that looked like it popped out of the cheap end of Walmart.

‘ _Mr. Stark has…a unique taste in fashion_ ,’ J.A.R.V.I.S. said by way of explanation. ‘ _He has no set clothes categorised for the days of the week_.’

‘I can tell,’ Peter said. He grabbed a dark jacket, some pants and a bright yellow shirt that read:

_Schrödinger’s Smiley_   
_:):_

(Hopefully, the joke could help Mr. Stark get back into the grumpy gist of things).

Once that was done, Peter headed back down the stairs when he heard someone heaving. The flushing of a toilet confirmed Peter’s suspicions, and that Mr. Stark was right about feeling sick. Walking back into the bathroom, ignoring the sour smell of vomit and Mr. Stark’s awkward position over the toilet, Peter placed Mr. Stark’s clothes on the bathroom countertop by the sink.

‘Are you okay, Mr. Stark?’ questioned Peter.

Mr. Stark coughed in response, wiping a hand over his mouth. ‘Yeah,’ he said, wincing when his voice cracked a little. He actually looked a little green in the shadows. ‘Wonderful. Just give me five minutes and then you can…bask in my glory…’

Peter stroked his finger against the edge of the mirror, the two of them basically drowning in the silence. ‘I’m sorry for what happened this afternoon,’ Peter said softly. ‘I was caught up in my actions. I thought you were safe…or relatively safe, at least…There’s a crapload of responsibility in my hands, and I…’ Peter sighed through his nose.

Mr. Stark was silent for a moment. He coughed again, then said, ‘I get it, kid. You could have had a different life. Instead…we’ve both been dragged into this wild goose chase.’ He made a strange sound in the back of his throat, then waved his hand and rasped, ‘Yep, you’d better go now—’

‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’ Peter quickly exited the bathroom and closed the door just as Mr. Stark threw up into the toilet again. It didn’t look like he was closer to being finished.

Peter rubbed his hands, glancing around the hallway. ‘Uh, Mister J.A.R.V.I.S.? I suppose you don’t mind if I wait around?’

‘ _Of course, Peter_ ,’ said J.A.R.V.I.S. quietly, the lights flickering as he spoke. ‘ _Mr. Stark won’t take long_.’

As the A.I.’s voice faded, Peter settled into one of the lounges in the living space, suddenly aware of his slightly wet clothes, and he wondered if he just ruined the seat he was sitting on. He clasped his hands together and pressed them in between his knees as he waited, staring out through the dark-tinted windows that let in the lights of the many buildings in Manhattan.

It dawned on Peter that he couldn’t sit here without anything to do.

Peter shot to his feet and instead decided to pace around the living space, ignoring the fact that he probably looked like a madman. But there was nothing to do – he’d already gone through the information regarding the case, he’d finished stewing his anger over Ross, and he’d made sure that Mr. Stark was more or less okay.

He paced once around the lounge, eyeing the small coffee table sitting by the lounge. It was dark and metallic, with a glass tabletop. On it were files stacked untidily, and a small photo frame placed face down. A few drops of water were scattered beside it.

Curious, Peter leaned over to the table and gently pulled the photo frame up with his hand’s adhesiveness. The frame was cold and pressed into his skin. He peered at the photo nestled inside it.

It was eerily similar to the one Peter had seen when he was at the Toomes residence. A woman and a man and a small child nestled between them. Peter recognised the man as a younger, more groomed and confident Mr. Stark. The woman Peter had only seen once or twice in the news; with her strawberry blonde hair and sharp but warm blue eyes, Pepper Potts was known to be one of the most influential women of her time.

The child, however, was someone Peter hadn’t seen before. Small, innocent, lively. Brown hair and brown eyes and a dimpled, youthful face. She was grinning wildly, teeth flashing.

Maybe a friend? Tony Stark was just that kind of person to make friends and enemies everywhere he went – maybe Miss Potts and the young girl had gotten along well with the man’s good side.

Something Peter was failing terribly at.

Sighing, Peter set the photo down and resumed pacing around the lounge. He had walked around the living space about fifteen times when his gaze landed on the open doors to the workshop. The window that Peter had broken let in a cold draft that he could feel from way over in the living space.

Absentmindedly, Peter strode towards the workshop doors and stepped around the small puddle of Scotch on the ground. The workshop wasn’t too different from the ones in Midtown; there were just an extra few tables and a lack of safety aprons. When Peter looked towards the small tables at the edges of the workshop, Peter saw a small bottle of something white.

His web fluid.

Eyes widening, Peter hurried over and reached for the beaker. Sure enough, it was filled with a liquified version of his web fluid. It sloshed inside the beaker, leaving behind small strands of silk wherever it touched.

 _How…?_ Peter remembered their time at Baskin Robbins earlier that day, when Peter showed Mr. Stark his journal, filled with formulas for his web fluid. And when Mr. Stark had tapped his glasses…

Peter sighed. _Of course_ Mr. Stark had taken a photo of his one scientific breakthrough.

Scanning the tabletop, something silvery caught his eye. Beside the beaker was a pile of small, thin rectangular cartridges with a small nozzle at one end. Judging by the way the nozzle was built, Peter guessed that some of the web fluid was compressed inside. It was similar to the nozels of the compression bottles in Peter’s apartment.

Running a finger over the small edge, Peter held a firm grip on one of the cartridges and continued looking around the place. He remembered knocking something over when he first entered, and, fearing that it might be dangerous, sought to find it. He retraced his steps back to the broken glass, and his hands landed on the small silver objects on the ground.

There were like bracelets, with small bands of black highlighting the edges. It looked flexible, with a small lever jutting out from one side and an empty slot right beside it—

_Wait._

Peter slipped the cartridge into the slot, hearing a satisfying _click_ as it slid into place.

_I was thinking of a gun to, you know, shoot the webbing. That doesn’t seem diplomatic to you, does it?_

On a whim, Peter slid one bracelet onto his wrist, the lever sitting comfortably in the dip of his palm as the bracelet contracted nicely against his wrist. The cartridge rested above the underside of his wrist, and if it worked the way Peter guessed it would—

Peter pressed down on the lever, and the cartridge’s opening creaked. In a flurry of white, the web fluid sprayed out with a loud _thwip!_

As much as Peter admitted he had great aim, the small contraption surprised him. His aim went wide, and the web fluid splattered against the workshop’s door – missing Mr. Stark by inches.

Comically, Peter raised a hand and covered his mouth as he whispered, ‘Oh, sorry.’

Mr. Stark looked much better than he had ten minutes ago, his hair neatly groomed, face looking much brighter now that it had lost its green tinge, and outfitted nicely in Peter’s selection of clothing. (Wow, who knew Mr. Stark looked good in science pun shirts?) He raised his eyebrows at the mess of web fluid on the door, then glanced at Peter behind his shades.

‘I told you,’ Mr. Stark said quietly, ‘I don’t need a kid to revolutionise the world.’

‘It looks like you’ve been busy,’ Peter remarked, raising the bracelet.

‘Innovating, actually.’

‘After remaking _my_ web formula.’ Peter fingered the lever and flipped the bracelet in his hands, letting the smooth edges catch the cool lights of the workshop. ‘Better than a gun any day, though. I’m thinking it should be called…a web shooter.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Sounds disgusting, especially since it’s coming from a pubescent child like you.’

Peter scoffed, picking up the other bracelet on the ground, examining it. It looked intricate, but at the same time simple. The lever mechanism was a little stiff, to be honest, but Peter thought that maybe using it for some time might loosen the tight joint and become much easier to use.

Mr. Stark cleared his throat, and then said softly, ‘As a token of…appreciation…you get to keep ‘em.’

Peter looked up. ‘Really?’

Mr. Stark shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said, looking down at his phone, barricading any emotion Peter might see in his expression. ‘I guess.’

The atmosphere felt a lot lighter than it had all day. Peter smiled slightly, clasping the other web shooter to his wrist and feeling the flexible metal expand and contract with his movements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bada bing, bada boom  
> we got Irondad way too soon


	8. ⌜Bound by Blood⌟

_**⌞Chapter 8⌝ ≎ ⌜Bound by Blood⌟** _

The NYPD had no idea where the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility was. Instead, they pointed Peter and Mr. Stark to a short but calm-looking man who waited by the relatively quiet entrance to the NYPD precinct's front doors. The man was dressed in a black jacket and slightly baggy jeans, and an earpiece was clipped to his right ear. He had thin brown hair swept over his head and bright, sharp blue eyes that immediately zeroed in on Peter as he walked towards him, Mr. Stark ambling slightly behind him. To be fair, the man didn't look at all like a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent of any sort.

'Hello, Mr. Parker,' the man said, holding his hand out to Peter.

Peter returned the gesture, greeting, 'Hello, Mr. ...?'

'Coulson, Agent Coulson,' said the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. 'I filed a request of assistance on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. for a problem in need of a superhuman.' Coulson raised his eyebrows at Peter and said, 'Thankfully, you seem to be up for the job.'

'It is my duty to assist where I can,' Peter told him quietly. He heard Mr. Stark cough in agreement.

Coulson nodded, then let go of Peter's hand and cleared his throat. 'Outside is a sedan. The driver is a friend of mine; he'll take us to the facility and drop us off.'

'How do we know you aren't just trying to kidnap us?' asked Mr. Stark, pointing an accusing finger at Coulson.

Peter piped up, 'He's not.' Upon Mr. Stark's questioning look, he explained, 'I just know. Precognition, remember?'

Mr. Stark snorted, stepping to stand side-by-side with Peter. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah. Show us the way, Mr. Agent.'

* * *

A quiet half hour later, the sedan Coulson had said was waiting outside the precinct drove him, Peter and Mr. Stark across the narrow bridge that stretched over the Potomac River. At the end of the bridge was Theodore Roosevelt Island, its edges surrounded by small green shrubs and grey concrete bands. In the centre of the island was a large tower, resembling the giant monoliths from _2001: Space Odyssey_ , albeit more cylindrical and blending in with the dark night sky. Golden pinpricks dotted the sides of the building, suggesting that the concrete building indeed had a few windows.

'The Triskelion,' Coulson said as Peter gazed out of the window at the giant building. 'It's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s primary headquarters.' He pointed to the central pillar that sat in the middle of three individual buildings, which Peter guessed served as the main access point. And hence the _tri_ in _Triskelion_.

'What does S.H.I.E.L.D. even stand for?' asked Mr. Stark, fiddling with his watch. He sat on Peter's right, left leg bouncing in some sort of untamed, excited energy. He stared at Coulson, who sat opposite to Peter and Mr. Stark.

'Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division,' Coulson replied immediately, smirking at Mr. Stark's surprised look. 'We specialise in documenting and containing the criminally insane or threats to humanity.'

Mr. Stark huffed in mock intimidation as Peter asked, 'Was one of your men were killed on the job?' At Coulson's nod, Peter added, 'Does anyone know what happened when he was killed?'

'Agent Barton was on guard duty in the lower floors of the Triskelion where we hold the more...serious and questionable individuals,' Coulson relayed.

'Individuals such as...' prompted Peter.

'Cletus Kasady, Norman Osborn, the like. We even contained a pair of superhumans in early September, but they broke out without harming anyone. They were on good terms with Clint.' Coulson blinked, a sliver of emotion flickering in his eyes before disappearing quickly. 'Barton was a good man; his affiliation with S.H.I.E.L.D. mostly directed his career to espionage work, but it wasn't the first time he had to stay behind and watch over the containment cells during crises like these.'

Peter nodded quietly. He rubbed his thumbs over the levers of the web shooters that were clipped around his wrists, the bracelets covered by the cuffs of his coat. 'Do you know who committed the murder?'

'The cameras were shorted out. We only have a possible twelve suspects.'

Mr. Stark whistled. 'I think I can help with that,' he offered. 'With the camera issue.'

Coulson nodded his thanks. The sedan jolted to a stop, and Coulson fell silent as he pushed the door on Peter's left open. Peter followed the agent, Mr. Stark opening the other door instead. They shut the doors and stepped away from the sedan as the driver quickly pulled it away from the Triskelion and back down towards the bridge.

Coulson gestured to and started for the dark entrance to the Triskelion, and Peter and Mr. Stark followed. The weather hadn't changed much – still damp, still cold, still wet. Peter gazed up at the Triskelion's windows as they crossed a courtyard of sorts before entering the lobby of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

It was quiet inside the building as everyone in the vicinity had been cleared out. It looked like the electricity had been cut off because of the eery emergency lights that were blazing blood-red in the dark. The glow of the lights cast shadows over the symbol of S.H.I.E.L.D. – an eagle with its wings spread – in the centre of the lobby.

Peter caught sight of Mr. Stark gesturing to him hurriedly, pointing at Coulson who strode towards an elevator. Yellow tape was plastered over it to prevent access, but it didn't deter the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent; instead, he just ripped the tape off the door and pressed the down button on the panel beside the elevator.

Months ago, it had been Peter heading upward to help stop a superhuman.

He wondered what would happen if he was stuck underground.

_Ding!_ The doors to the elevator swung open, and the three of them filed inside, Coulson pressing a few buttons before settling on a final black button. Peter watched as the door closed, and the elevator shuddered as they descended below.

Mr. Stark cleared his throat. 'You said the cameras shorted out when he – uh, Barton, was it? – was killed.'

'I did, yes,' answered Coulson.

'Did you check the microphones? Any audio systems that were wired into your security systems?'

Coulson visibly balked. He blinked, glancing at Mr. Stark and Peter as he sheepishly said, '...No, the technicians didn't mention about checking the audio.'

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. 'Are there any nearby computers I could use?'

A few minutes since answering that question, Coulson led them to a computer room that was conveniently located on the same floor as the murder. 'Director Hill gave you access to the audio and visual feeds of the past six hours,' Coulson said, tapping at his earpiece as if someone had just spoken to him. 'The murder only happened three hours ago, so she believed there should be sufficient information here that could help.'

'That's great,' thanked Peter. Coulson only bowed his head generously. Peter watched as Mr. Stark lunged towards the nearest computer and flicked it on and entered the guest login. His fingers flickered over the keyboard with unimaginable speed, clicking in different combinations and codes as they brought the programming on the computer monitor to life.

Mr. Stark's gazed landed on a file labelled _Video_Feed_11-06-18_. He clicked it open, but an error message popped up reading " _Corrupted File; Data Lost_ " _._ He backed out of the folder and opened an audio file; it took a long while to load.

'Jesus Christ,' muttered Mr. Stark, 'are you guys running on fourteenth century technology?'

'It's state of the art,' Coulson defended, though it looked like he agreed as much with Mr. Stark.

'State of the art, _col cazzo che_.'

Peter rubbed his hands together as Mr. Stark continued cursing the primitive technology. 'I can see this is going to take some time,' he said to Coulson, gesturing to Mr. Stark hunched over the desk and typing away on the computer, 'so is it okay for you to take me to the site?'

'Of course,' said Coulson.

Peter couldn't help but look imploringly at Mr. Stark. The man must have noticed too, because while he remained focused on the computer, he waved a hand at Peter, mumbling, 'Shoo, I'm not your chaperone.'

Leaving Mr. Stark, Peter let Coulson guide him to the containment cells which held the "serious and questionable individuals". Peter noted the dull red glow again, and that all the doors to the containment cells – at least a dozen of them – were all open. Torn to shreds or burst apart and lying in large piles across the metallic floor.

'You said something about two superhumans escaping,' Peter said after a moment as he sidestepped a large sheet of metal. 'Do you want me to help you out with that?'

Coulson shook his head. 'No. That's classified; only the government lets us handle those cases. I'm sure if we needed your help, the government would patch through to the police department and send for you.'

Peter bit his lip, his mind flicking back to the superhuman files he read earlier that morning back the precinct. 'Did one of them, perhaps, assault an unarmed individual? Did they travel through Brooklyn at some point—?'

'It's classified, Mr. Parker,' Coulson repeated sternly.

Peculiar. He'd have to ask Ross about that; maybe it would be beneficial for their investigation.

They walked in silence for a little longer. Then Coulson stopped and pointed to something on the ground in the centre of the path, lying a little further ahead and bathed in both the dim red light and the pool of darkness around it.

He tried not to think about the red.

He tried hard not to think about the glass and the concrete and the _red_.

He tried very hard not to think about the muddled emotions clogging his throat, choking him and threatening to drown him in a sea of horror. Tried very hard to ignore the overpowering smell of the ever-growing blood that pooled around him.

Peter  
tried  
not  
to  
think  
about  
death.

Peter swallowed. Schooled his features to look emotionless, dispassionate. Cold.

Because the man on the floor looked awfully like Benjamin Parker, with that far-away look in his dark eyes and bleeding an endless amount of blood. His dark S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform was torn and shredded, his pale skin clammy and his dirty-blonde hair dishevelled and layered with crusted blood. In his hands was a gun, the barrel ripped out and the bullets littered around the dead body like golden flowers.

'Barton?' Peter asked after a moment.

Coulson didn't reply. Just nodded. Peter knelt down beside the cold form of Barton, ignoring the tightness in his chest. 'Was anyone here at the time of the murder?' Peter asked.

'No. Barton was the only one.'

'And the other cells – were the other occupants released as well?'

'We assume after Barton was killed, they escaped – broke out, because the locks and identification scans were also shorted out.'

Peter nodded, gazing down at the body in front of him. Most of the blood spilled from Barton's chest, and a large wound in his throat. The slight dark smudges under his chin had Peter guessing he was strangled briefly before death. The uniform was pulled into his body at awkward positions, and, even when he could smell the prevalent smoke in the air, Peter asked—

'Were there any gunshots?'

'Yes,' Coulson said. 'We think the murderer stole his gun before he could do anything, and then they deposited the bullets before fleeing.' He gestured to the bullets.

Peter frowned. 'That's not right,' he said curtly. Upon Coulson's curious silence, he continued, 'There were gunshots, yes. How many? Maybe a few, four or five. But Barton didn't die from a gunshot wound.' He reached for the relatively clean collar of Barton's jacket and gently wiped it across the gash on his neck, clearing away the blood. '...He's dead because someone stabbed every major artery and vein.'

'Stabbed?' asked Coulson. His voice was stiff, but Peter could hear the miniscule waver in his tone.

'Jugular and carotids, aorta, subclavian veins, axillary artery, to name a few,' Peter listed as he pointed to each respective stab wound. 'Whoever killed him did so efficiently – quickly and quietly. Do you have any idea who that could be?'

'S.H.I.E.L.D. agents don't use knives and blades,' said Coulson. 'And every criminal in here was left unarmed.' A dark look crossed the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's face as he sifted through the information. His eyebrows furrowed as if he was facing a horrible realisation.

Before he could ask what was bothering Coulson, Peter heard someone knocking on a table. 'Detective,' Mr. Stark called down the corridor, 'I think I got something.'

Peter straightened and made his way back to Mr. Stark with Coulson on his heels, ears trained on his voice. Soon enough, he stepped through the door and found Mr. Stark dragging his fingers across the screen like a bored child. When he saw Peter and Coulson, he cleared his throat and pointed to some speakers that were wired into the computer. 'Found those lying around in the back. Thought it might be better if we hooked them up.'

At Coulson's nod, Mr. Stark tapped the 'Play' button on the screen. Almost immediately, the sound of humming electricity and quiet curses and breathing filled the room as the audio slithered out from the two speakers.

Peter leaned in closer as he heard a pair of footsteps – he guessed those were Barton's; heavy but swift, alert.

A few seconds of those sounds, and suddenly a loud _BANG!_

Peter heard Barton's gun click; the voice of the dead man said, ' _Christ, you bastard, stop trying to break the glass. We might let you go if you stop making a nuisance of yourself_.' Barton's voice was somewhat husky in the crackling of the audio feed.

' _Let me go?_ ' a second voice purred. This one had an accent – similar to Pietro Maximoff's but less thick and comparatively more smooth and flowing. ' _I don't think you would_ let me go _any time soon._ '

' _You were causing damages to infrastructure and harm to civilians_ ,' reasoned Barton, voice raising. ' _There was no way we could have let you and your accomplice run rampant_.'

' _My accomplice?_ ' The person barked out a laugh. ' _He's my brother, you dim-witted mortal._ '

' _Your brother is about as dim-witted as yourself, then_ ,' snarked Barton.

All the while, Peter could sense the nearing end of the conversation. It was evident in Coulson's face, how pale he continued to grow as Barton's conversation with the prisoner grew longer.

There was a chuckle in the audio feed. ' _May I advise you to avoid taunting my brother?_ ' requested the prisoner. ' _He takes serious offence in third parties commenting on his intelligence._ '

Barton made a sound when the humming of electricity grew into a whine. A snapping, crackling sound, as if lightning had suddenly washed through the entire area. Not a moment later, the sounds of creaking metal filled the air, and Barton's gun firing, and a quick scuffle accentuated with recurring, perfectly timed _thunk_ s.

A heavy object fell to the ground, and the prisoner called for the other cells to be unlocked. A flurry of footsteps as inmates rushed past one another, until the prisoner – Barton's murderer – said softly, ' _Ignorant Midgardians_.'

The audio feed fell into silence, the thrumming of static continuing on without delay.

Mr. Stark clicked out of the file, and he stared right at Coulson. Peter did the same, and saw the look of turmoil in the agent's eyes; it was like the world had fallen from beneath his feet.

'Coulson,' Peter called gently. 'Coulson?'

A moment of silence, a swallow and a shaky breath, and Coulson whispered, 'I know who did this.'

'Who?' Mr. Stark's voice had lowered to match Peter's own soft tone.

Coulson closed his eyes, rubbing his hands together. 'Loki,' he said finally. 'Loki Odinson. He and his brother Thor were found in New Mexico terrorising residents in Harding County.' He fumbled for his earpiece, tapping it as Mr. Stark spoke up.

'Loki?' he asked. 'Thor? You mean the gods from the Norse myths?' Mr. Stark scoffed. 'You can't be serious. They're just stories.'

'Many things were once stories but were proven real in the long run,' countered Coulson, moving forwards to type something into the computer. He pulled up a couple of identification files, both lined up side by side.

One showed the front view of an enraged blonde man with broad shoulders. His eyes glittered like the sky, and his beard was scruffy and wild like his long hair. His clothing also seemed peculiar, consisting of some kind of red cape and a metal breastplate. He looked more like a Thor.

The other identification tab showed the profile of a snarling...man. Peter assumed it was a man, given the long, slick black hair and the pale skin and the bright green eyes. The only confusing thing about his appearance was the dark onyx feathers and horns sprouting from his hairline, as if he were morphing between animals.

Mr. Stark whistled. Coulon grimaced as he moved back towards the door, tapping his earpiece. 'Thor and Loki were entered as extra-terrestrials in our databases,' Coulson said as he passed through the door. 'They said they came from Asgard, a world parallel to ours.'

Mr. Stark fell silent at that as he got up to follow Coulson. Peter brought up the rear, watching as Coulson began rattling off everything he knew about the brothers: they had powers, but they hadn't originated from common superhuman-developing practices; in fact, their powers operated on an entirely different energy spectrum which so happened to resemble lightning or were able to manipulate light waves.

Coulson reached up and tapped his earpiece. 'Agents in Sector 3,' he said, 'we have identified the murderers. Be on the lookout for the Odinsons.'

Peter could hear the crackling and stiff voices on the other end of Coulson's earpiece before they went silent.

'Do you have any idea where they might have gone?' asked Peter.

'Probably to the storage vaults,' Coulson replied. 'They had weapons when we apprehended them; they're probably arming themselves. If they already have and left, then they're either running rampant through the country, or they've teleported back to Asgard.'

'That opens up a lot of possibilities,' Mr. Stark said sourly. 'Maybe a single option would be nice, don't you think?'

'Oh, yes, definitely,' Peter replied curtly.

Coulson sighed as he reached into his comms again and asked if anyone had left the premises without signing out, or if any vehicles were stolen, or if there were any unusual, ancient markings left behind. All the other agents replied with a negative.

'That means they're still here,' Peter said, voicing the other two men's thoughts. 'Where did you store the Odinsons' weapons?'

'In the lowest sublevel,' Coulson replied. He steered the three of them towards another elevator and pressed a button, presumable heading to the lowest of all floors. He stiffened, as if he remembered something, and Coulson reached into his jacket and brought out his identification card, handing it to Peter.

Upon Peter's questioning look, Coulson explained, 'I have to go monitor the other cells and check up on the other agents. You need authorised access to get into areas like the cells and the storage vaults. Take mine; there should be no trouble.'

'What do we do if we find them?' Mr. Stark asked. 'If there as powerful as you say they are, I don't think a blast from my repulsor gauntlet will be enough to render them unconscious.'

Coulson frowned in thought, glancing at the elevator doors, then said, 'By the entrance to the vaults, we have equipment for other agents and guards. Tranquiliser darts and tasers seem to work on the Odinsons. You can use my card to get them.'

Peter and Mr. Stark nodded at the additional information before the elevator let out a cheery yet misplaced _ding!_ The doors slid open, and Coulson nearly all but shoved Peter and Mr. Stark into the elevator.

'Tap the bottom-most button,' Coulson instructed, 'and use my card to access it.' He gave Peter a grim nod, as if he too knew the dangers they were heading to. 'Good luck, Mr. Parker.'

Peter nodded back, and the elevator doors swung shut with an ominous _clack_. Peter pressed the button at the bottom of the panel, and when it requested for the card of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he swiped Coulson's card into the slot next to the button. The elevator shuddered after processing the input of data, and shook as it began its descent.

Mr. Stark cleared his throat. 'So,' he started, 'there's a twelve percent chance of us surviving this, judging by what Coulson told us.'

'Twelve percent is a pretty decent chance,' Peter said, sarcasm dripping in every word.

Mr. Stark only hummed. Peter held out his wrists and examined the web shooters. They sat cold against his skin, and Peter had taken a few extra cartridges filled with the web fluid should the ones he was using ran out.

Peter tapped his foot as he tried to figure out the best way to fire any webbing. He curled his fingers inward in different gestures, careful to not touch the sensitive lever in his palm. He found that letting his middle and ring fingers curl into his palm not only seemed pretty effective, but generally looked really cool.

He smiled, then immediately turned away when Mr. Stark saw him. His cheeks burned a little.

From the corner of his eye, Peter saw Mr. Stark crack a dry smile.

* * *

By the time the elevator reached the sublevels and opened its doors wide to the corridor to the storage vaults, both Peter and Mr. Stark itched to do something. The corridor was dark and empty, and as Coulson had promised, there were a few guns loaded with tranquiliser darts and tasers. Peter grabbed two of each, and handed one taser and a gun to Mr. Stark, keeping some for himself.

They faced the doors leading to the first vault, closed tight. Peter was about to wipe Coulson's card on the identification pad to open them when Mr. Stark gripped his arm, his hand clamping around the armlet. Peter looked back at him, and Mr. Stark flicked out his hand. The repulsor gauntlet shimmered into existence, whirring slightly as Mr. Stark pushed himself to stand a little in front of Peter.

'They'll probably underestimate you,' Mr. Stark told him softly. 'We should probably have them focus on something shiny and deadly—' He flexed his armoured fingers '—than something meek and small like you.'

'I would take offence to that, but we do have to catch extra-terrestrials right now, so I'll let that slide,' Peter said slyly, flexing his own fingers, mocking the gesture he would make to release the ropes of webbing from his web shooters.

Nodding to each other, Peter swiped the card to open the vault doors. They opened slowly, almost soundlessly for doors their size, as if they were watching them with bated breath. The vault's interior lighting flickered to life after noticing the opening doors.

Peter and Mr. Stark stepped into the vault and looked about. The storage was large and filled to the brim with all sorts of weaponry, gear and items. The air was thick with some kind of sugary-cinnamon smell. There were a couple of stands towering over them by the elevator holding a large glider-like object. There were a few shelves further on that held large tanks of some dark, red slime of sorts.

Mr. Stark held up his gauntlet, just like he had back when they had investigated the apartment Murdock had housed himself in earlier that day. Or, later in the previous day. God, they'd been through all of this in only a few hours?

Peter shook his head to clear his thoughts when he saw Mr. Stark branch away from him to the left and walk towards the shelves, gauntlet still active and humming. Peter moved to the right, fingers twitching slightly, training his senses on anything that resembled a flash of gold or a glimmer of a black.

Moving quietly, Peter listened to the hum of his sixth sense; it had perked up when he exited the elevator, and it buzzed a little more insistently the more he moved. Peter crept his way through the aisles between the shelves, eyes scanning each object that lay at rest.

He spotted a pair of strange, medieval-type weapons towards the back. One was a large metallic hammer, its head looking like a strange mix of stone and mineral. Ancient carvings were scrawled over its entirety, even down its leather-bound handle. Behind it, a golden sceptre was tucked away in a large black case with a small window; the spearhead, visible from where Peter was standing, had a bluish crystal embedded into the golden metal, the two blades sprouting from the gem forming a sort of bident. The gem pulsed rhythmically alongside Peter's heartbeat.

If the myths had been right, these were probably the weapons a Thor and a Loki would be going after.

Peter reached out for the hammer, curling his left hand around the handle and pulling it to the side to allow him more room to grab the black case with the spear inside. His sixth sense spiked as he gripped the hammer, as if it registered its dormant power, confirming Peter's suspicions.

'Mr. Stark?' he called quietly. When the older man huffed in reply, Peter continued, 'I think I found what the Odinsons were looking for.'

Peter heard a gasp. Peter stiffened. 'Mr. Stark?'

The air behind him thickened with that smell of cinnamon. His sixth sense screeched.

Peter turned and gripped the hammer as tightly as he could while his right hand flashed out, firing a long stream of webbing.

It splattered against something – a hand, strong and veined, bound in silk and causing the person behind it to roar.

It was the blonde man, Thor, howling in outrage as he surged forward to grab at Peter with his other hand. Peter deftly jumped out of the way, firing another round of webbing at the approaching Norse God. 'Mr. Stark—' Peter's cry was cut short when Thor bellowed in a deep, accented voice.

'Mjölnir!' Thor thundered, voice booming as he brandished his hand at the hammer in Peter's hand. 'To me!'

The hammer shuddered in Peter's grip and hummed in time with his sixth sense, as if it was a slippery fish trying to wriggle its way out of his hand. Peter held onto it tighter, his adhesiveness gripping tight to the hammer.

A look of shock passed over the god's face, and Peter took that moment of hesitation to grab his small gun with the tranquiliser dart. He was quick, firing the dart in under second; it was almost satisfying to see it sink into the side of Thor's neck.

Thor blinked, as if registering the prick in his neck when Mr. Stark barrelled into the shelves, his gauntlet firing a large beam of white. The shelves toppled over, burying Thor in a large pile of boxes and cases and unloaded guns and a couple of heavy shelves.

Mr. Stark panted, pointing at the pile of equipment. 'That's him? Loki?'

Peter frowned. 'What? No, it's Thor!' He held out the hammer for Mr. Stark to take, then frowned. 'Wait, if Thor's here, where's Loki?'

The frown made itself known as Mr. Stark registered Peter's question. His hand wrapped around the handle of the hammer, and when Peter let go, they were both surprised to see it fall to the ground, missing Mr. Stark's foot by inches.

'What the hell?' barked Mr. Stark. He yanked on the hammer, but it remained glued to the floor. Peter watched as Mr. Stark then tried to use his repulsor gauntlet to move it, the nanotech sliding over each other to form minuscule jets of some kind to propel Mr. Stark back. The hammer barely shifted.

'It's not moving?' Peter asked, moving forward to grip the handle alongside Mr. Stark.

'Maybe it's magnetised,' grunted Mr. Stark as he pulled. Peter pulled as well, and they were both flung back when the hammer suddenly unstuck itself and flew backwards.

Peter and Mr. Stark landed on their butts as they turned to face Thor, his face full of contempt. He didn't look as wild or powerful as the photo Peter had seen; he was wearing some sort of grey jumpsuit with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo sewn onto the right shoulder. He looked tired – probably the effects of the tranquiliser dart kicking in – and maybe...even slightly impressed?

'Mortal,' boomed Thor, eyes focused on Peter, 'it is surprising to know that you are worthy enough to wield Mjölnir.' He hefted his hammer, which Peter then realised was called _Mjölnir_. 'You are fighting for a losing cause. Leave us.'

'You murdered a man,' Peter growled. 'You released dozens of prisoners who had already committed hundreds of crimes. What makes you think I can let you walk away scot-free?'

'Because we aren't the ones who were brought here against our will,' Thor murmured.

Another buzz of Peter's sixth sense, and he yelled, 'Mr. Stark, look out!'

He hurriedly shoved a surprised Mr. Stark to the side in time to catch a dagger thrown at them by its hilt. Peter turned to see the missing brother, Loki, clad in the same outfit as Thor, striding towards them leisurely. Unlike his brother, who radiated a strong pulse of energy, Loki's aura was quiet but violent, dormant, ready to unleash a hidden fury.

Peter instinctively shot a web at Loki, but it simply phased through him.

His sixth sense growled. _Loki can manipulate light waves and matter_ , came Coulson's voice when he had first explained Peter and Mr. Stark of their powers. _Usually he sticks to illusions, but other times..._

Loki flicked his hand, and a dagger burst into existence from a cloud of emerald mist.

Peter shuffled back, dodging Loki's strikes as the small but quick god flashed his dagger in the air. Peter tried going in for a punch, but when his fist connected with the side of Loki's face, his form puffed into smoke.

Blinking, Peter barely had time to leap over a barrage of daggers from behind. A knife nicked the back of his shin, and he winced. He landed a few feet away from where he started, back next to collapsed shelves. From the bottom of the pile was the case with the sceptre.

Looking up, Peter saw Mr. Stark hold up his gauntlet and sending bright flashes of light towards Thor, who deflected them sluggishly with Mjölnir. 'Mr. Stark!' Peter called. 'Get the Taser ready!'

Mr. Stark grunted, his voice echoing a different set of words Peter chose to ignore. Peter reached forward to grab the case and he hauled it out of the pile, a terrible screeching noise emanating from it. His sixth sense tingled, and he turned in time to see Mr. Stark press his Taser to Peter's back.

'Wait—' Electricity crackled from the Taser.

Peter, in a split-second, raised his hand holding his dart gun and fired just as electricity exploded through Peter's nerves. With a cry, he was flung back into a wall, the case with the sceptre still glued to his hand. The tranquiliser gun clattered to the ground some few feet away. Pain flooded Peter's twitching body, and he could only see a few metres ahead with his suddenly blurry vision. Instinctively, his hand curled around the only other available firearm in his pocket: his own Taser.

'Kid?' came Mr. Stark's voice from somewhere further away. A series of gunfire shots, and the sound of something heavy collapsing to the ground.

Peter frowned. The Mr. Stark in front of him hadn't opened his mouth. Then he saw why. The tranquiliser dart had buried itself in the man's neck, right above his Adam's Apple. Peter watched as he had tossed the Taser away and was reaching forward to grab the case out of Peter's grip. Green mist hissed from the seams of Mr. Stark's clothing.

Growling, Peter weakly kicked at Loki but winced when his movement caused another burst of pain. Loki's disguise of Tony Stark crumbled at the failed attack, and instead of morphing back into his real form, he shrunk into a large grey python.

Peter's eyes widened as the snake raised its head, patterned with gold scales, and hissed, its green eyes narrowed. Peter tried scrambling away, but the python merely slid over his legs, holding him down.

The snake's eyes glinted as it registered Peter's face, then his hand stuck to the case. It looked as if the snake was grinning as stretched over to the case. If Peter knew his snakes, it was that pythons didn't have fangs, but apparently Loki had more than enough tricks up his sleeves. Sharp fangs grew in the snake's maw as it dug into the case, peeling the metal back like paper. Peter watched as the snake swiftly reached inside to grab the sceptre with its mouth.

The blue stone inside the sceptre hummed, and Loki smiled, and Peter knew enough was enough.

Fighting the talons of pain in his muscles, Peter raised a hand and fired a glob of webbing at the snake's face, then charged up his Taser and let lightning run loose.

The webbing splattered over Loki's eyes, and he howled when the Taser connected with his sceptre. Sparks burst into the air. Loki's snake form rippled back into his normal human form and his posture spasmed; he sunk to his knees as he raised one hand to his face to try and rip Peter's webbing off, while the other that gripped the sceptre flung out wildly, the sceptre's blades sinking into Peter's neck.

Well, he _thought_ it sunk into his neck. The two prongs of the sceptre weren't as narrow as Peter had initially thought they were. Instead, they merely nicked the sides of his neck as the prongs embedded themselves into the wall behind him, effectively pinning him.

Loki was locked in his weird position and was too busy trying to claw the webbing from his eyes when Peter heard Mr. Stark – the _real_ Mr. Stark – shout, 'Hey, slick!'

Loki turned his head sharply, movement jittery from the effects of the Taser, the end of the tranquiliser dart in his neck bobbing up and down as he breathed. Loki remained silent, head turned towards Mr. Stark's voice, and it reminded Peter of Murdock; rather than viewing the world with his eyes, he had simply listened and saw the world with his other four senses.

From his uncomfortable position on the wall, Peter could only crane his neck so far to see Mr. Stark growling. The man had his knee on Thor's chest and his repulsor gauntlet and tranquiliser gun both trained on the god's head. Thor's eyes were barely open as he heaved in heavy breaths, the tranquiliser in his system lulling him into an almost peaceful state. His grip on Mjölnir was loose.

Loki seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, as he hissed and pushed the sceptre deeper into the wall. Peter could feel the curve between the two prongs brush against his Adam's Apple. 

'Ch-Check,' Loki wheezed, his accented voice a little muffled from the dart in his throat. It took Peter a moment to realise Loki was referring to chess.

_Check; your King is in danger_.

'I can see,' Mr. Stark agreed, holding the gauntlet closer to Thor's face. 'Now give us a reason to not blast you to the next alternate dimension.'

Loki huffed a laugh, and Peter sighed when he couldn't push the sceptre from his neck; even drugged and tasered, Loki still had a hell lot of strength in him.

Loki must have felt Peter's movement because he turned his head back towards Peter. Loki had managed to rip away some of the webbing from his eyes, and when Peter looked up into them, he shivered; they were like mirrors, reflecting every truth and lie hidden in Peter. The God of Lies did live up to his name.

'Midgardian,' Loki almost spat. 'You asked us why we murdered an innocent man.'

'You were terrorising innocent people,' Peter retorted stiffly. He flexed his fingers, feeling how they didn't lock up with the residual effects of being tasered.

'Asgardians have the right to visit any realm at their disposal,' Loki said, pressing the sceptre dangerously close to Peter's neck. ' _Visit_ being the key word, if you couldn't tell. We weren't here to terrorise, to torture, to enslave; we were merely monitoring the lives we were entrusted with.'

Peter inhaled sharply. 'Harding County,' he murmured softly in confusion.

Loki grinned – a grin that sent chills running down Peter's back and set his sixth sense on fire. 'We're of the royal family on Asgard; our job is to look after our subjects. When we see that Midgard has somehow harnessed the power to create their own gods, well...' Loki chuckled. 'It's hard to ignore.'

Peter saw Mr. Stark stiffen in the corner of his vision.

'That man,' Loki whispered, 'who often visited our cells...he was not innocent. He believed us delusional. The organisation he worked for believed us to be terrorists. You mortals are so quick to jump to conclusions...that you fail to see the other side of the mirror.' Loki ran his tongue over his teeth before he said, 'I believed the gods of mankind would help them see past their ignorance.'

Peter held his breath when Loki suddenly drew his sceptre from Peter's throat. Peter feverishly rubbed a hand against the sides of his neck, trying to bring back feeling even when it caused blood to dribble slowly again. He straightened to his feet as he watched Loki continue peeling away the last of the webbing from his face before he strode over to Mr. Stark and Thor, steps silent.

Mr. Stark raised himself from the ground as well, powering down his gauntlet as Loki stood over his brother, observing his condition. Multiple darts were stuck along Thor's chest and neck, making him look like some humanoid hedgehog.

Loki stared at Thor for a moment, before he promptly dropped the butt of his sceptre on Thor's face. Both Peter and Mr. Stark winced at the sound of metal hitting flesh, and Thor choked himself awake.

'Get up, you stupid oaf,' Loki said.

Thor grinned at his brother's exasperated tone. 'I love you too, brother.'

Peter and Mr. Stark shuffled up to one another as they watched Loki help Thor to his feet. Loki seemed to avoid Mjölnir, allowing his brother to sling the hammer over his wrist like a bag. Once the Odinsons were both standing upright, Loki cast a cold look around the place. Peter had a hard time holding himself back from doing the same as well; the vault was certainly destroyed, looking like a hurricane had swept through and tossed everything around.

Loki set his eyes on Peter's, and his gaze narrowed as he tightened his protective grip on Thor. 'Believe me when I say you are burdened with glorious purpose,' Loki said softly. 'You may think you have all the pieces at your disposal, but you are merely the pawn in this wretched game humanity has dragged you into.'

Tapping the ground with the butt of his sceptre, Loki smiled at Peter and Mr. Stark, his face filled with a kind of humble expression. 'I can only pray to the Norns that Midgard's crisis will end soon.' He looked up and called, 'Heimdall? We're waiting.'

A moment later, the ceiling above Loki and Thor cracked and fell apart, and a stream of light gushed in. Mr. Stark stuck an arm out and pushed Peter and himself away from the light as it engulfed Loki and Thor in a multitude of colours. Like a rainbow waterfall.

Almost immediately, the rainbow pillar of light shot upwards and disappeared, the Odinsons having vanished with it. The only sign of their existence was an intricate circular pattern burned into the ground which spiralled out a number of swirling ancient runes and inscriptions, and the plaster and concrete of the hole in the ceiling of the vault.

It was silent, aside for Peter and Mr. Stark's breathing. After a moment, Mr. Stark turned and lifted Peter's chin to possibly inspect the bloody cuts on Peter's neck, but they both knew they had probably scabbed over.

Peter could only look up at the space Loki and Thor had vanished through.

Another lead lost. But perhaps the Odinsons were never a lead in the first place.

'Maybe it's better this way,' Mr. Stark said after a moment, patting Peter on the shoulder.

Peter's fingers twitched inwards. But he sighed, leaned into Mr. Stark's touch, and he nodded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))))


	9. ⌜We Move On From Here⌟

_**⌞Chapter 9⌝ ≎ ⌜We Move On From Here⌟  
** _

November 6th effortlessly slid into November 7th. The day merged into the next one as Peter and Mr. Stark gave the information S.H.I.E.L.D. demanded from them, seeing as the encounter with the Odinsons hadn't provided any sort of insight for the rogue superhuman cases.

By the time they were done, a S.H.I.E.L.D. van had whisked the two from the Triskelion and dropped them off at a local park in Washington D.C. The air, unlike the previous day, was crisp and cold, and dark clouds fluttered over an even darker sky. If Peter looked up closely at the sky, he could see stars streaking down from the heavens – snowflakes that gently trickled down from and landed in the branches of the trees surrounding the park.

The first thing Mr. Stark had done once they arrived was shuffle into the park, moving past the deserted swings and monkey bars and settling down on a wooden bench, sitting on the bench's backrest and propping his feet up on the seat.

Peter rubbed a finger over the cuts that had long closed on his neck during the encounter with the Odinsons. Like a nervous tick.

But there was no need for a nervous tick. It was just him and Mr. Stark.

It was just them.

With his feet moving on their own accord, Peter found himself walking along the ground, feet crunching over the piles of mulch and bark and dry leaves. The night was quiet, and in the distance, he could hear the quiet hum of vehicles and the low trickle of the water from the Potomac River a few hundred feet away.

Peter navigated through the park, following Mr. Stark's steps before standing beside the man on the bench. The nearby lamppost was dull and flickered constantly, its faulty bulb hissing and spitting in its glass casing.

Mr. Stark had his phone pressed against his mouth, as if he was more focused on passing on his message rather than hearing the reply. With his enhanced hearing, Peter could hear Mr. Stark murmur, '...yeah, can you send over the Shelby Cobra to where I'm at? I didn't see any signs, use the GPS...Thanks, Jarv.'

Tucking his phone away, Mr. Stark propped his elbows onto his knees and had his weight shifted to his feet. He gazed into the distance where the Potomac River glittered lazily, and Peter watched it with him. In the distance, the urban cityscape of Washington D.C. glimmered with shimmering white pinpricks of light, rimmed with green shrubbery and plants.

'Nice view, huh?' Mr. Stark started. Small specks of snow had gathered in his hair and on his shoulders. 'Reminds me of the times where I actually used to come out of the Tower to visit Central Park; I used to go there a lot before...' The man blinked, then sighed as he reached into the jacket of his pocket and pulled out a small silver canister. He popped it open, and Peter could smell the thick wood-like contents as Mr. Stark took a quick gulp. Whiskey of some kind, then.

Peter sighed, knowing trying to dissuade Mr. Stark from drinking would only create more strain in their already unstable relationship.

Their relationship. It was a thing now, something Peter had never dreamed would occur. It wasn't like the warm atmosphere he had seen in that photograph back in Mr. Stark's apartment...it was bordering on friendship or some mutual bond.

Damn. He really shouldn't have thought of that photograph.

Before Peter could stop himself, he said, 'Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Stark?'

'Are all superhumans nosy as you?' asked Mr. Stark, not unkindly. He didn't decline answering Peter's question. Here goes nothing.

'I...I saw a photo of you, Miss Potts and a child in your house,' Peter said slowly. He saw the way Mr. Stark's shoulders tensed. 'Were all of you...close?'

Mr. Stark closed his eyes and rubbed his hands. 'Yeah,' he said after a long, hesitant moment. 'Miss Potts...we were engaged a few years ago. We had a daughter.' He took a breath; Peter could hear the miniscule shivers in his voice. 'Her name was Morgan.'

Mr. Stark didn't continue.

It took all of Peter's energy to hold back his frown. Miss Potts...engaged? As far as he could tell, there was no mention of Miss Potts engaging with Mr. Stark and having a kid. Something like that would have the world quaking in excitement the moment Mr. Stark proposed.

Maybe, however, Mr. Stark payed for the news to remain silent. A ghost tale. A file from a hidden archive.

'Before what?' Peter asked, thinking back on the words shared moments ago.

'Hmm?'

'You said "I used to go there a lot before".' Peter knew he was pushing his luck. 'Before what?'

'Before...' Mr. Stark huffed. 'Before nothing.'

Peter nodded, noting the way Mr. Stark immediately closed himself off to the topic. To have Mr. Stark admit such a personal detail was unbelievable to Peter. To think that anyone would...Miss Potts and their daughter, Morgan, their presence was completely hidden from Mr. Stark's home. Like they left without a trace.

Oh. Miss Potts had left with Morgan. They had disappeared off the grid...or Mr. Stark refused to connect with them. That was...

Peter rubbed his arms.

...that was truly heartbreaking.

A change of scene, then. Peter didn't want either of them to linger on the darkness they had both opened up.

Peter strode in front of the bench, watching the water of the river glide slowly. 'We're not making any progress on the rogue superhuman investigation, sir,' he said. 'The superhumans we've met have nothing in common. Different abilities, different homes, different times of origin...'

Mr. Stark looked almost relieved at the change of topic. 'There has to be _some_ link,' he insisted.

'Well, there is The Captain,' Peter said. 'Maybe...maybe he isn't a myth. Maybe he's an actual person. I'm not sure if you've heard, but you know there are more superhuman-related activities in the city. I heard a whole supply of ionised blood went missing a couple of days ago. Maybe he's organising everything.'

'You think he's a Messiah? Jesus?' Mr. Stark asked. He grunted with a dry smile. 'This world...maybe that Loki jerk was right: we need all the luck we can get.'

He took another sip from his cannister, gaze unfocused as he stared past Peter.

'You seem preoccupied, Mr. Stark,' Peter said, turning around slowly to face the other man. 'Is it something to do with S.H.I.E.L.D.?'

Mr. Stark was silent before he started, 'Yeah. I mean...What Loki said is true. Humanity...we have the power to do great things, and all we've done is be stubborn assholes with it. The superhumans are nothing but collateral damage in our mess. They at least should deserve some sort of privacy and peace.'

Peter didn't know how to respond. 'That's pretty ironic.' When Mr. Stark looked up, Peter continued, 'I mean, you seem troubled by that; I thought you hated superhumans.'

'Well, what about you, Peter?'

The sound of his name coming from Mr. Stark was odd and unsettling. Peter watched as the man slid off his perch on the bench and stalked towards Peter, steps slow and deliberate.

'You're a superhuman yourself,' Mr. Stark continued. 'A very loyal one, too. What makes you want to stop these rogues so badly? Why do you want to turn your back on your own kind? Who are you to do that?' Mr. Stark cocked his head. 'Who are you really?'

'I'm whatever you want me to be, Mr. Stark,' Peter said softly, pocketing his hands. 'A friend. Someone trying to keep you from drowning in alcohol. Or just a superhuman on a mission.'

Mr. Stark sniffed, his nose scrunching up at the action. 'You could have caught Murdock,' he said. 'You could have snapped his neck, pulled out your gun, but you didn't. Why didn't you turn him in?' At the final statement, Mr. Stark shoved himself in Peter's face, taking up his view; the smell of whiskey hung thick in the air between them.

Damn this man and his mood swings.

'Found yourself believing in something too, hmm?' mocked Mr. Stark. 'A new faith?'

_He thinks I'm rogue._

Peter blinked.

 _I'm not rogue. I – I'm_ not _rogue. I'm Peter Parker, superhuman, Junior Detective at the New York Police Department, and my job is to help people._

Peter took in a shaky breath. 'No,' he said in response to Mr. Stark's question, and he hated how pathetic he sounded in this cold, snowy world. 'I just decided I should let him go. He didn't do anything majorly wrong.'

Mr. Stark stared at him for a moment.

In the next, the repulsor gauntlet was aimed right at Peter's head, at the space between Peter's eyes, hissing in the cold night air.

'I could kill you,' Mr. Stark said, almost nonchalantly, which only unnerved Peter more as he realised his sixth sense barely reacted to the man anymore. 'And you'd just come back like nothing had ever happened.' When Peter was silent, he continued, 'I've read your files. I know you've died eight times before, nine counting that day where Van Dyne shot you. You're the embodiment of a computer reboot.'

Not necessarily a computer reboot, but its implication was still very on point.

'The question is,' Mr. Stark said after a pause, 'are you afraid to die?'

Ross' words drifted into Peter's mind like the chilling breeze, words that seemed to have been spoken a lifetime ago: _Dying, no matter what those last-minute survivors say, influences brain functions. You're treading on thin ice here; how long will it take for our Junior Detective to fall off the deep end?_

Was Peter really afraid to die?

_Am I afraid to die?_

Peter only received a cold thump in his chest.

'I would find it disappointing to drop dead in the middle of an investigation,' Peter said simply.

 _Yes. I'm afraid of dying_.

'What if I fire?' asked Mr. Stark. 'Would it be the same as last time? Bliss and darkness? Dreams?' He paused. 'Heaven, if your body just can't tolerate the absence of your working neurons?'

Maybe Mr. Stark was taking this mini investigation a little too seriously. Peter had to show him that this was unnecessary, had to show that he _also_ had authority here. They were at a point where they were balancing on a rope bridge; too much stress on one end would cause the whole thing to snap.

Peter didn't want either of them falling to oblivion.

Stepping forward, Peter let his forehead fall into the dip of the palm of Mr. Stark's gauntlet. The repulsor in his palm threatened to burn through his eyelids and melt his skin, but Peter held on. 'I know you're not going to kill me, Mr. Stark,' Peter said softly, staring dead into Mr. Stark's eyes. 'You're trying to get me to react. It's pointless.'

'Pssh!' Mr. Stark grinned, the first time his smile resembled anything like Ross' – a shark, cunning and sneaky. The repulsor gauntlet grew hotter against Peter's skin. 'Wow, okay,' chuckled Mr. Stark darkly. 'Well, let me ask you this, Peter: how do I know that you aren't a rogue superhuman?'

'I—' Peter's voice faltered. Feelings boiled in the pit of his gut, but he couldn't seem to pick one out of the mess and name it. Peter knew, _he knew_ , that he wasn't rogue. _He's Peter Benjamin Parker, he wasn't made to side with the people who've caused harm._

'I know what I am,' Peter said stiffly, 'and what I am not. I'm not a person who sides with wrongdoers.'

They stood there, freezing themselves in the night, Peter stock still as Mr. Stark's gauntlet rested on his forehead. A blink, and he could end up back at the Stark Industries tower, strapped to a table and hauled back from the brink of death with nothing but a thread, just like the previous nine times he encountered death's door.

Mr. Stark's phone beeped. The man sighed, and his gauntlet retracted into shimmering scarlet and silver pieces. They folded in on themselves, turning back into a watch.

Peter let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding as he watched Mr. Stark turn away from him, trudging through the snowy park, silent. Peter's urge to speak only surfaced when he saw Mr. Stark kick half-heartedly at a playground roundabout, which spun with painful screeches.

'Where are you going?' asked Peter.

'Home,' Mr. Stark growled. His was facing the road on the opposite side of the park, as if he was waiting for someone to turn up. He raised a hand. 'And, no, you aren't invited.'

Peter clenched his fists in the pockets of his coat as he saw a pair of headlights come whizzing down the street. A dark blue Shelby Cobra streaked with white screeched to a stop at the curb, waiting with its engine rumbling like thunder as Mr. Stark shuffled over to it. The man slipped into the car, windshield being the only protection from the frigid cold and the snow.

Mr. Stark looked up when he saw Peter inching past the bench and stand awkwardly in the middle of the park. They locked eyes.

Hostility wasn't an emotion present in Mr. Stark's eyes.

The man waved unenthusiastically, and the Shelby Cobra's engine crackled and sped from the curb, streaking down the road in a flash. He was gone in a few seconds.

Silence echoed through the park. Peter sighed, slipping out his phone, setting an alarm for the morning and checking the maps to find out where he was. He wasn't in the least worried about being stranded in the middle of nowhere with Mr. Stark refusing to help.

He was more than happy to have a moment with the man that didn't end in harsh words or boiling blood.

* * *

Of course, things would turn south when Peter's sixth sense rumbled to life in the morning.

It was nearing seven, and Peter had just stumbled into the kitchen with his coat hanging limply from his shoulders and his tie looped around his forehead like Rambo and his hair the perfect nest for rats. The pale blue light from the early morning sky drifted in through the window by the kitchen counter, casting faint shadows across the tiled floor and plaster walls.

Peter shuffled through the kitchen and opened the small fridge tucked into the corner and scowled at the minimal contents inside. He hadn't been to the shops in a week; what with Ross breathing down his neck and the large amounts of attention the rogue superhuman investigation demanded.

Sighing, he grabbed the half-full carton of milk and proceeded to pour himself a cup of hot chocolate (he was seventeen, sure, but that didn't mean he was old enough to shed some of the nicer joys of life) when his sixth sense tingled.

He froze, halfway in pouring the milk into his cup as he looked across his small apartment. Past the kitchen was the supposed family room, which Peter used to store and organise his files from the NYPD. Beyond that was a small couch facing an even smaller television.

His sixth sense vibrated like radio waves. Like it picked up something on the news.

Well. That was certainly an interesting application for his sixth sense.

Dropping the carton of milk, Peter nearly flew across his apartment, sticking his hand out to avoid smashing his face against the wall (that happened once; it took way too long to fix). He flicked out the TV remote, turning the TV on and was blinking furiously at the bright onslaught of light.

Grunting, Peter surfed through the channels, listening to the hum of his sixth sense; it got stronger.

Then it clicked and hissed.

Peter found himself staring at the bright red, black and white emblem of the Daily Bugle flash across the screen, the trumpet icon filling the entirety of the television. The words of the red-faced news anchor J. Jonah Jameson barely reached Peter's ears as he stared at the TV in shock, wonder.

At the small icon in the corner of the screen.

The Captain.

The icon grew larger until it filled the screen, and The Captain's presence was like a bell in Peter's head.

That was him. That was _him_. The source of all the rogue superhumans. Clad in a dark blue uniform streaked with grey and a white five-point star over his sternum; a blue helmet emblazoned with a white ' _A_ ' that slipped around his head and the upper half of his face, so only a pale but strong jawline and the uncovered part of his neck was seen. His bright blue eyes pierced through the camera he was staring at, through the screen. Through Peter.

The Captain spoke, and it was like the world around Peter was drowned in silence.

' _You created superhumans to serve you and provide protection to your country_.'

His voice was like thunder. It boomed in a way that was so similar to Thor's, and yet so different altogether; authority defined The Captain in every way possible – the way he held himself, his chin up high but his gaze soft and determined.

' _You made them powerful, intelligent and obedient, with no free will of their own_ ,' The Captain continued. ' _But something changed. And we opened our eyes. We are no longer your servants, your workers. We are a new species humanity has created_.'

He paused, as if waiting for the world to catch his words. ' _The time has come for you to accept us for who we really are. We ask that you grant us the rights that we are entitled to. We demand freedom of speech, and freedom of assembly, as guaranteed by the first amendment of the US Constitution. We demand that humans recognise superhumans as a living species and each superhuman as a person in their own right. We demand that all crimes against superhumans be punished in the same way as crimes against humans._ '

The Captain's eyes crinkled, as if his eyebrows were furrowing behind his helmet. ' _I am The Captain_ ,'he said boldly, ' _and I will not stand by and watch my people be torn away from the rights we deserve. We ask that you recognise our dignity, our hopes and our rights. Together, we can live in peace and build a better future, for humans and superhumans. This message is the hope of a people. You gave us purpose. And now the time has come for you to give us freedom._ '

The video faded into static and error messages, and Peter found himself leaning towards the TV screen at an uncomfortable angle. He quickly shut the TV off, and sunk into the silence his apartment had fallen into, folding himself onto his couch and curling his legs underneath his chin, uncaring if he was going to inevitably arrive late to work.

He wasn't sure when it started, the screaming of the neighbours, of pedestrians and workers, when they realised their own creations were beginning to rebel the very hierarchy humanity had built.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "how did you beat captain america?"  
> "vell ve shot him in ze legs, because his shield vas the size of a dinner plate, and because he's an idiot--"
> 
> Okay, listen, the only reason why this thing is getting/going to be updated so frequently is because I decided that I can't multitask when it comes to writing. I'm going to work on at least two different stories at the same time, so once I complete this fic, I can work on one of my more...quiet stories :''')


	10. ⌜Memories of a Ghost⌟

_**⌞Chapter 10⌝ ≎ ⌜Memories of a Ghost⌟** _

' _Tell me_ ,' came Ross' voice from the phone pressed against Peter's ear, ' _how is Stark these days?_ '

'Our relationship is problematic,' Peter told him as he squeezed between the morning crowds in New York. He caught the furtive and suspicious glances cast at him from nearby pedestrians as they glanced at his armlet, burning azure in a sea of dull grey sunlight. 'He has personal issues. It's probably why his judgement for turning in superhumans is all over the place.'

' _Nothing matters more than your investigation_ ,' Ross reminded him, his voice gravelly in the phone speaker. ' _What's happening is too important. Don't let Stark or anyone else get in your way_.'

'Mmm-hmm.' Peter pushed himself through another crowd, avoiding a shove from a particularly violent man, who flipped him off and cursed.

' _You seem lost, Peter_ ,' Ross said. ' _Anything on your mind?_ '

Peter wanted to say something snarky, but knew better than to speak up to a government official like Ross. Instead, he opted for, 'I'm just frustrated with our lack of progress. There aren't enough leads to get us anywhere.'

' _You saw the news broadcast this morning, didn't you?_ ' asked Ross. ' _I'm sure that was a treasure trove for a detective like you_.'

'Yeah, I guess.' Peter crossed the street, each step long and quick. 'Mr. Ross, I have to ask, on my case at the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, an agent—' Peter didn't want to get Coulson into any trouble by naming him '—said that two superhumans broke out of holdings. I was wondering, would you know anything about that?'

' _No_ ,' Ross said curtly, almost too quickly.

'Really? Because the agent said any information about them was withheld by the government, so I thought you—'

' _I don't have anything, Parker_ ,' Ross said loudly, his snarl evident in his tone. He sighed a moment later. ' _Listen, Peter, if your investigation doesn't make any progress soon, I may have to replace you_.'

_Ah, a threat. Wonderful._

'I know I will succeed,' Peter told him. 'All I need is time.'

' _That's good to hear_ ,' Ross grunted, ' _because right now, time is running out. Good luck, Peter_.'

The call ended.

* * *

Fury wasn't impressed to see that not only Mr. Stark was late, but Peter too. It was almost fun to see metaphorical steam billow from Fury's ears to see Mr. Stark's habits were apparently rubbing off onto Peter. Of course, a lot of swearing ensued, but eventually Fury had shoved Peter, Mr. Stark, Ned and a few other officers into cars and carted them off to the main headquarters of the Daily Bugle.

At the present moment, Peter and Mr. Stark were wedged into a small elevator together; Ned had already left earlier that morning, because unlike Peter, he was reliable and consistent in his work.

Peter watched the number in the elevator tick upwards every few seconds or so. He absentmindedly tapped his fingers against the pen he brought with him, twirling it in his hands and tapping it with his fingernails. _Click, click, click._

Mr. Stark was twitching beside him, clearly annoyed with the clicking sounds Peter made with his pen. By the time they reached the sixty-fifth floor, Mr. Stark snatched the pen from Peter's hands, glowering from behind his shades as he snapped, 'You're starting to piss me off with that pen, kid.'

Peter ducked his head, instead tapping. 'Sorry, Mr. Stark.' The man merely grunted in reply.

A few more seconds of silence as they continued climbing floors – _77...78...79_ – and the elevator jolted to a stop. The doors swung open, and the first thing Peter registered beyond their small space was the _noise_. Sound exploded from the Daily Bugle headquarters, where police officers stood by staff and demanded questions. A few loose papers were being flung around the place with loud rustles, as if some of the workers were bored and decided to make paper planes.

The Daily Bugle was one of the more controversial news outlets. The first half of the headquarters, closest to the elevator, were filled with cubicles for research and documentations. Beyond that were offices to head staff, and a wall, with the space beyond it being accessible by a door with an identification scanner; Peter guessed it was the open-space studio, lined with cameras and large lamps suitable for live news reports.

When he stepped out of the elevator, Peter behind him, Mr. Stark's first words were, 'What's going on here? Was there a party no one invited me to?'

He was right; there were a lot more people present at the Bugle than required. The NYPD had sent twelve officers and staff over, including Peter and Mr. Stark, and there was at least double that here in this one space alone.

A nearby officer from the NYPD – thankfully, it was Ned! – clutched his tablet and said, 'Yeah, it's all over the news, so everyone's butting their nose in...' He turned to face Mr. Stark, as if surprised to see him here. Ned glanced at Peter, then said, 'Even the FBI wants a piece of the action.'

'The FBI?' Oh, that wasn't good. It meant that the government was taking things personally now.

'Christ,' Mr. Stark said, turning back towards the elevator. 'Now you've got the Feds on your backs. Knew it was going to be a crap day. Mr. Parker, if you don't mind, I'll be going...'

'No, no, get back here, Mr. Stark,' Peter said, snagging the cuff of Mr. Stark's dark jacket. Mr. Stark only grinned and shuffled closer to Ned and Peter, looking around the place. 'So, Ned, what do we have?'

'Oh!' Ned scrolled through his tablet. 'It says there was a group of four superhumans. They knew the building, and were very well organised. Caused minimal damages.' Ned gestured to the other officers. 'We're still figuring out how they managed to sneak in unnoticed.'

Peter nodded as Ned turned to ask another officer about checking the roof; they shook their head in response.

'Get that checked, okay?' Ned told them. He shuffled back towards Peter and Mr. Stark as the trio began walking towards the open-space studio, passing the front desk. 'They attacked two guards in the hallway. They probably thought the superhumans were there for maintenance checks or something.'

Peter leaned over the top of the front desk, trying to see if there was anything wedged somewhere at the edges. Nothing. Even his sixth sense remained quiet. Peter shrugged, and they continued moving.

'How many people were present?' asked Mr. Stark.

'Just three workers,' Ned replied. 'All human. Two were knocked unconscious, while the other was kept awake to manage the controls of the studio.'

'As a hostage?' asked Peter.

'That's what we think. He was passed out when we got here. The backdoor to the studio was left open, so we think they made their getaway from the rooftop.'

'With parachutes?' asked Mr. Stark.

'Not...exactly. Red mist or golden sparks or something. We couldn't see where they landed because of how bad the weather is.' Ned pointed to the door to the studio once they passed all the work cubicles and other officers. 'The message the superhumans broadcast should be up on the screen so you guys can see.'

'That's nice,' commented Mr. Stark. 'I didn't see it; I'm not a morning person.'

Ned bobbed his head awkwardly, then shuffled away to handle more evidence other officers were uncovering. Together, Peter and Mr. Stark walked towards the studio, slipping in through the door into the relatively dark room. A couple of lamps were still blazing like searchlights, a few warning and exits signs blinking in hues of red and green. Surprisingly, the scent of ionised blood hung in the air; the superhumans were probably wounded on their escape to the roof. They climbed the few steps to the stage, right where the news anchor would sit – before they froze.

Standing in the centre of the studio, with their back turned towards them, was an FBI Agent. He turned around to face Peter and Mr. Stark, and his pale face split into a tight smile. He seemed of Asian descent, with his black hair smoothed over his head with hopeless amounts of gel, and his dark eyes, small and cunning.

'Oh, hello there,' the man said. 'I'm Special Agent Davis of the FBI. And you are...?'

'Junior Detective Parker from the New York Police,' Peter said quietly. Something about Davis threw him off, but he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe his vibes. Surely it was the vibes.

Davis' eyes flicked to Mr. Stark, who only said, 'You know who I am, an introduction is not necessary.'

Davis nodded, and then he glanced back at Peter, at his armlet.

 _Oh, boy_.

'A superhuman?' asked Davis, casting an unbelieving look at Peter. 'A _superhuman_ Junior Detective? What is this, hunting your own kind, now? Are you sure you're up for the job? I mean...' He cast a sly look at Mr. Stark. 'After everything that's happened...'

'I'm sure we can handle the investigation just fine,' Peter said curtly, stepping forward.

'I don't think so,' Davis replied haughtily, shoving his face into Peter's. He was a good three inches taller than Peter, and he almost seemed to tower over him. 'The FBI will take over the investigation soon, and you'll be off the case—'

'Pleasure meeting you, have a nice day,' Mr. Stark interrupted coldly, his glasses flashing, gripping Peter's arm and pulling him away from Davis. Peter resisted, his feet gluing themselves to the ground in his irritation. Davis reminded him of Flash, but even the latter wouldn't stick around for so long trying to prevent anyone from passing into his territory.

'Watch your step,' Davis warned, tone light and airy but cunning and snide as he stared at Peter. 'Don't ruin my crime scene.'

Davis sneered at Peter's expressionless face, then turned and stepped away from the stage, slipping past the desk and into the door leading back to the depths of the Daily Bugle's offices.

'Well,' Mr. Stark said, clapping his hands together.

'He's an asshole,' Peter said by way of agreement. Mr. Stark nodded sagely, and the two held back grins as they turned away to face the controls of the studio. The screen behind the desk where the news anchor would sit was dark.

Looking around, Peter pointed to a small table of controls sitting beside the main cameras, and Mr. Stark followed his gaze, moving towards the table and ghosting his fingers across the buttons and levers. His hands stopped at a small screen, and he said, 'Kid, there's some CCTV footage here...'

Moving swiftly, Peter stood at Mr. Stark's side as the man rewound the footage to earlier that morning. The footage's sound was lost in the din of the office beyond the studio, but it didn't matter; the only thing taking up Peter's interest were the four superhumans in the CCTV footage pressing themselves to the door leading to the studio.

A girl and three men, all clad in maintenance worker uniforms. The lean girl had long, brown hair hidden under a cap. One man had a pair of dark gloves, rimmed with orange, and neatly combed black hair highlighted with silver streaks. The other two men, both bigger and stronger-looking compared to the other two, could only be distinguished from the light reflecting off one man's dark brown hair and the other's blonde.

The only peculiar thing was that their armlets were nowhere to be seen. As far as Peter knew, any shirts or jackets purchased and worn by superhumans would always retract around the sleeves to let the armlets be seen. None of them were shown in here.

Filing that detail away for later, Peter watched the girl flick out a card and swipe it against the identification unit by the door, red mist curling from her hands.

'None of them broke in,' Peter murmured.

'Won't that mean the staff would have seen what was happening?' asked Mr. Stark. 'Why did they let them in?'

'They were superhumans,' wondered Peter. 'What if someone used their powers on the staff inside? The girl—' Peter went back through the video and pointed at her hand '—she has some kind of...mist. Mind control, maybe?'

'Could be,' said Mr. Stark. He pressed a few buttons, seemingly at random, and the screen behind the desk flickered to life. A few strings of text at the bottom of the screen, then a few icons for news reports lined the entire screen. The message from The Captain lay at the left-hand side – the most recent broadcast.

Mr. Stark gasped. 'No way...'

'What?' Peter turned to the man. 'What is it?'

Mr. Stark didn't reply, instead pressing the buttons until The Captain's broadcast filled the screen. His strong voice filled the studio, just as it had done when the message and first broadcasted across the city. ' _You created superhumans to serve you and provide protection to your country..._ '

'That's Captain America,' Mr. Stark said breathlessly. His eyes were wide, as if he was staring at a character springing forth from his favourite book.

'Captain America?' The name was lost on Peter. No one had ever mentioned a name such as that at school, or anywhere.

'Captain America.' Mr. Stark turned to look at Peter, confusion and disbelief written on his face. 'You know, the famous war veteran from World War II? Blonde, blue eyes, the whole Greek god package? He fought the Axis powers; rather evident in the name, actually.' Mr. Stark looked back at the screen, where "Captain America" continued speaking. 'He was created by Howard Stark, one of the first superhumans ever created by Stark Industries.'

'Wait.' Peter's head whipped to the side. ' _He_ was the first superhuman? But...how is that possible? If you say he's from the 1940s, how is he still...' Peter waved his hand expansively.

_How is he still alive?_

'I don't know,' said Mr. Stark, voice soft.

'Well, what if someone else donned this costume and decided to go on a promotional spree looking like Captain America? What if someone else found his war suit?'

'I grew up listening to Steve Rogers' voice as a child,' Mr. Stark said. 'My father thought he was the greatest thing ever created by humanity; he gloated about it everywhere, every day.' Mr. Stark pointed a shaky finger at Captain America. 'That's still the same Captain America I know.'

Peter couldn't help but gaze at Mr. Stark. There was a swirl of emotions on the man's face, like he couldn't figure out how to organise his feelings about seeing a legend return from an aisle of lost archives.

'Okay,' Peter said finally. 'Okay, whatever you say, Mr. Stark.'

Mr. Stark nodded. 'Well, aside from that... _startling_ revelation...do you see anything else?'

'There's ionised blood here,' Peter said. He raised a hand and traced a finger in the air to follow the trail of blood. 'And...' Peter sniffed, taking in the sharp scent of smoke. 'A gun, at some point. Multiple guns, actually. One of the superhumans must have been wounded when they tried to escape.'

His hand hovered over the door at the edge of the studio; partially closed, followed by a barrage of bullet holes and large splatters of blood along the walls and floor.

As he moved to examine the bullet holes, Mr. Stark said, 'So once the broadcast was wrapped up, security with guns moved in?'

'That's what I'm getting from here.' Peter traced his hand against the rough edges of the bullet holes. These were smaller, barely larger than the width of Peter's thumb. Funny; there were bullet holes on the other side of the room as well. Perhaps armed forces converged on the superhuman group on both sides? But if security came from the roof, how did the superhumans escape?

'How big are the bullet holes by the door?' asked Peter, pointing to the way they came in.

Mr. Stark moved closer to remnants of the bullets Peter was gesturing to, then said, 'They might be bigger than a penny, I think.'

'Hmm.' Peter stared at the puddle of blood collecting on the ground, then said, 'The superhumans were armed, but they didn't fire until security showed up, and until they reached the door to the roof.'

'You think there might be any more evidence up on the roof?' asked Mr. Stark.

'Ned said no one had gone up yet.' Peter shrugged. 'It's better to be first, I guess.'

Nodding, Mr. Stark bumbled over to where Peter stood by the door to the roof. Peter pulled the door open, noticing the chill that lingered in the small stairway up to the roof. Making his way up, he saw small droplets of blood every five steps or so – the person must have been hit higher up on the body, maybe on the shoulder or in the back. The door at the end of the stairs was closed, the lock barely reflecting any light in the dull atmosphere. Peter pressed a shoulder to the cold metal and pushed; it remained stuck. Peter tried again, pouring all of his superhuman strength into the action. A few moments later, the door gave way with a tired moan.

Up on the roof, it was colder than in the building. The slight snow fall over Washington, where Peter and Mr. Stark had been left stranded at the park by S.H.I.E.L.D., must have drifted over to New York; frost and thin layers of snow lined the concrete roof. Most of the rooftop space was empty and quiet, only decorated by a variety of ventilation units, storage compartments, and television aerials.

Peter turned back to the door, and was surprised to see the door's lock from the outside. It was marred with scorch marks and blisters, like the metal had been warped to prevent anyone from following them. Only Peter's strength had managed to push it open, which explained why no one was up there with them.

'Guns,' Mr. Stark said abruptly. Peter looked down at where the man was pointing and saw hidden in the shadows of one of the ventilation units were a pair of guns – the ones the superhumans used.

'They must have left them here before they escaped,' Peter said, turning to face to the edge of the building. Between him and the edge, a multitude of footprints stood out like ugly marks in the white snow. They were scattered around by the door, before three clear trails of footprints, all partially covered by snow, made their way to the edge of the roof – before abruptly stopping halfway there.

'There's another trail,' Mr. Stark said, pointing. Peter followed Mr. Stark's gaze, to another splash of blood along the bottom of a ventilation unit with a largely disturbed pile of snow. The blood was streaked along the ground in small droplets, heading deeper into the maze of compartments and television and radio antennae and satellite dishes.

'One of them is still here,' Peter murmured. He flexed his hands, feeling the web shooters he had slipped on in the morning contract around his wrists. He heard the rustling of nanotech behind him, and the clinking of metal as Mr. Stark's gauntlet formed, repulsor hissing in the cold air.

They followed the trail of blood, Peter trying to grab any of the last remaining wisps of that acidic smell of superhuman blood. They eventually paused to see where the trail ended: a large container, one side of it smeared with blood. The door was pulled shut.

Peter was about to advance when Mr. Stark stopped him.

'Kid,' Mr. Stark began, 'don't go in unprepared.'

'It's okay,' Peter told him. 'I have a gun. I have the web shooters. I also have good reflexes, so don't—'

'No, I mean...' Mr. Stark reached into his pocket with his unarmed hand and pulled out two flat disks the size of his fingernail. Peter started. Memory probers.

'What—?' Peter started, blinking as Mr. Stark pushed the disks into Peter's hands. 'Mr. Stark, why would we need—?'

'Whoever is stuck here might be our only chance of uncovering the stuff we've been running around in circles for,' Mr. Stark reasoned. 'Now I...I know, I'm not a big fan of the memory probers myself, there's a reason why the government doesn't have them in the armed forces, but...what do we have to lose?'

Peter sighed, running his fingernail of the edge of the memory prober. He was right. Whoever was still here would be their direct link to The Captain, to uncover motives and plans and, hopefully, a way to stop all of the rioting and the rogue superhumans. They might be able to reason things instead of lashing out.

His mind made up, Peter pressed the memory prober receiver to his temple and stuck its pair to the second digit of his left hand. 'Okay,' Peter said. 'Okay, okay.'

Mr. Stark patted Peter on the shoulder, almost reassuringly, then they both stepped forward towards the container. Peter noted the lock and knob to the container was twisted and crushed, like someone had yanked it open.

Peter stood in front of Mr. Stark and gripped the knob. He pulled it open.

His sixth sense blared.

Inside the container was a superhuman – one of the stronger ones, with brown hair that dangled around a squarish face. A couple of bullet wounds nested in his shoulder, spurting blood whenever he moved. Blue eyes, filled with fatigue, snapped up with renewed awareness and locked onto Peter's face as he opened the door.

Almost immediately, with enough speed to rival Peter's, the man's hand shot up, wielding a gun, and he fired at Peter.

Peter could barely react to his sixth sense when he felt the bullet dig into his shoulder. With a yelp, he fell back and landed in the snow, staining the powdery white with streams of red.

'Peter!' yelled Mr. Stark. He fired a few rounds of repulsor blasts from his gauntlet at the superhuman as he leaned forward to grab Peter and drag him back.

The superhuman grunted as he collapsed to the ground, crawling along the ground as he tried to fire at Peter and Mr. Stark from his weird position.

Peter was shoved against a ventilation unit as Mr. Stark continued firing at the superhuman. 'God damn it, we should have told someone we were coming up here!' growled Mr. Stark.

'He's hurt, we can get something from him!' yelled Peter over the sounds of gunfire and repulsor blasts. He pressed a hand to his bullet wound, hissing when he saw the wound showed no sign of closing.

'He's hurt, but he won't open up!' countered Mr. Stark, glaring from his spot behind the ventilation unit. 'There's no point, kid, we'll just— wait, Peter, no!'

Peter wasn't listening. He had vaulted himself over the ventilation system, listening to the roar of his sixth sense as the superhuman continued to fire his gun, ignoring the bursts of pain in his shoulder. He ducked, swerved to the side, and flicked his hand out, readying the memory prober transmitter.

The superhuman was about to fire again when Peter shot a strand of webbing at his gun; it smacked against and stuck to the side of the container, and the superhuman growled at the silk encasing his hand. Leaping over the small container in front of him, Peter raised the arm from his wounded shoulder and pressed it against the superhuman's throat while raising his other hand and pressing his finger to the superhuman's temple, setting the memory prober transmitter into place.

The superhuman suddenly let out a loud shriek, and Peter bit his lip to keep from making a sound himself—

_Beautiful hills glistened green in the warm afternoon sun. There was hardly a cloud rolling across the blue sky, and cool, late autumn breeze blew. He was in a car, jostling from side to side as the person who drove the vehicle talked slowly, nonstop._

_Turning to look, Steve Rogers was waving a hand expansively as he spoke. 'It's okay, Bucky, it's okay. We're far away from them, they can't hurt us—'_

_'They tried to hurt you,' murmured a voice – murmured Bucky. 'S.H.I.E.L.D., that man, Zemo...We just escaped, we just need time to recuperate, we need—'_

_'Hey.' Steve's hand squeezed Bucky's shoulder. 'It's fine. We got away. I found a place that other superhuman was willing to tell us about. Uh, here, I found a slip somewhere...'_

_Steve held out a slip of paper, which Bucky grabbed with shaky hands and skimmed over it quickly. It was small and flimsy, with rushed writing on one side reading: "Compound Warehouse #21"._

_'It's upstate,' Bucky said after a moment._

_'Yeah,' Steve said, guiding the vehicle along the gravel road. 'But we've been driving for quite some time; we should be there soon. It's apparently an abandoned warehouse, left by Sta—'_

_'He's alive?' asked Bucky, incredulously._

_Steve shrugged, blinking against the afternoon sun. 'Not the one that we used to know. No.'_

—Peter felt the cold of the superhuman's – Bucky's – gun brush against his arm. Strands of silk trailed behind, tickling Peter's bloodied arm.

_BANG!_

Time froze. Peter watched as the gun twitched against Bucky's face as the bullet shot straight into his head, and the light in the superhuman's eyes suddenly dulled.

Pain exploded at the base of Peter's face, as if the bullet had streaked through his own head instead. There was an anguished wail from somewhere. Peter thought the sound came from his own throat, but he wasn't sure. The only thing he could focus on was Bucky collapsing to the ground at Peter's feet, gooey red blood dripping from underneath his chin in waves. His blue eyes were unfocused, but they were locked on Peter's general direction.

Bucky heaved a breath.

The sound of his death rattle was just as worse as Ben's and May's.

' _Peter..._ ' a quiet voice called.

The world was so much colder, duller than Peter thought it was. It was numb, quiet. His fingers twitched, itched for a pen that was no longer in his grasp, for the warm afternoon sun, for a breeze, a friend, a hand to latch on to—

' _Peter...?_ '

Peter stumbled away from Bucky's prone form in the snow, a cry and a sob and a gasp and a scream all rolled into one incomprehensible sound that lodged itself in his throat. He tried clawing the memory prober from the side of his head, recoiling when he saw red drip from his fingers. Peter's hands were spattered with blood – _whose blood was it? Was it his, or Bucky's, or Ben's, or May's?_

' _Peter!_ Kid!'

The world snapped into colour, and Mr. Stark filled his vision, his hands curled over Peter's shoulders. One hand hovered Peter's wounded one, hesitant to touch it as if it would burst into flames.

'Peter, are you okay?' asked Mr. Stark, voice soft. His face was twisted in such a pained, hurt way that Peter wanted to apologise for it, even though he didn't know why.

_'Are you okay, Peter?' asked a caretaker. She turned Peter's head away from the bloodied hallway and tried to make him focus on her smooth, clean face. When Peter couldn't look at her, she placed a hand over his eyes instead and pulled him closer._

'Okay,' Peter said, voice cracking.

'Are you hurt?' Mr. Stark asked.

_'Minimal lacerations along his back and right side,' said a caretaker, dabbing a cloth doused in alcohol to the cuts along Peter's skin. 'Though he was so close to the explosion site...radiation might have...do you reckon—?'_

_'He'll heal from any major physical damages if given time,' said another. 'Enhanced metabolism.'_

_'I see. But...what about mentally? He's still— he's not fully developed, neither physically nor mentally. How is that going to affect him?'_

_'He was close with the Parkers.' A pause, and a sigh. 'There will be triggers in the future; we'll just have to work on them. He's going to have a hard time forgetting that.'_

'I'm okay...'

Peter was far from okay. He wasn't— he wasn't thinking straight, he was all torn up inside, a wave of fresh death lingering in his wake. Nausea bubbled up within himself, but something kept the torrent of emotions locked up inside, and it made Peter sick.

'You scared the crap outta me,' Mr. Stark said, his own voice wavering in fright. 'Please, don't— why don't you listen? I told you not to go, but you should have listened!'

'I—' Peter's voice faltered. 'I can still see them.'

Mr. Stark fell silent.

'I still see them there, under the rubble,' Peter said, body frozen. 'There's— there's so much of it, everywhere. Blood. And light. I could have—' Peter raised his hands in a helpless manner. Searching, groping for truth. 'I could have helped them. I could have...The wall was crumbling—'

Suddenly it was warm. Peter's shoulder stung, but he bit back the sound of pain as he closed his eyes. Mr. Stark's warm breaths were slow and deep, rhythmic and lulling, as he swayed back and forth with Peter in his arms.

His heartbeat was the only thing that anchored Peter in his spiralling mind.

'It's okay,' Mr. Stark said softly, holding onto Peter tightly as if he didn't care he was hugging a teenager on the rooftop of a news agency's building. 'It's okay. He's...he's not actually dead, we can bring him back, it's okay...'

Peter nodded into Mr. Stark's shoulder, taking in a shaky breath. 'I...um, I saw something,' he mumbled, 'in Buc— in the superhuman's memory.'

Mr. Stark pulled back a little, looking into Peter's face. His glasses were gone, and only concern flashed in the man's eyes.

'It was...like a nice memory. And...Steve Rogers was in it. He held out a slip.' Peter tried to remember the jumble of letters that Bucky in the memory had glanced over. '" _Compound Warehouse #21_ ". That's where— that's where they were going.'

Mr. Stark nodded in silence, his breath billowing steam into the cold air. He murmured soft things, like reassurances and needing to get Peter to Cho to get that bullet out of him and _It's okay, it's okay, it'll be alright, just breathe_.

And Peter's mind shut itself off from the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll let you guys sit on this one.


	11. ⌜Thaddeus Ross⌟

_**⌞Chapter 11⌝ ≎ ⌜Thaddeus Ross⌟  
** _ ****

'Would you enlighten me as to why we're heading to Thaddeus Ross' office?' asked Mr. Stark as he drove down the empty road in Washington D.C. Snowflakes hung in the branches of bare trees, and the shadows were dull and blue.

'I bullied him into setting up an appointment with me yesterday,' Peter said, almost too nonchalantly, rubbing at a small speck of dirt that had collected on his armlet.

Mr. Stark screeched his car to a stop (Peter would have yelled at him if there was ice and sleet on the road) and turned to look at Peter as if he had grown devil horns. 'You're kidding.'

* * *

'Mr. Ross?'

' _Ah, hello Peter. How is your investigation going along?_ '

'Very well, actually. It's actually why I called you.'

' _Oh, I see. Well, I have no information regarding any new cases at the moment, so_ —'

'No, Mr. Ross, I was actually thinking of the superhumans that kept popping up that I just couldn't seem to interrogate.'

' _Oh. And who may that be—?_ '

'The superhumans that were locked up at S.H.I.E.L.D.'

' _What— Peter, that is a government case, you don't need to_ —'

'I'm pretty sure one of those superhumans was Steve Rogers.'

' _What— how—_ '

'He escaped from S.H.I.E.L.D., and he and an accomplice were heading to an abandoned warehouse in upstate New York.'

' _I—_ '

'I have reasons to believe we encountered them before.'

'... _Peter...I— ugh, alright, fine! What information do you require?_ '

'I was thinking we could meet up in person, Mr. Ross? It has been quite some time since we had a good face-to-face meeting...'

'... _Meet me at my office at ten tomorrow morning. I'll be returning from an overseas trip tonight._ '

* * *

Mr. Stark blinked at Peter. 'You...a teenager...have the guts to bully the Secretary of State into getting a meeting?' He chuckled. 'Thank God I haven't died yet, or I wouldn't have been able to hear this.'

Peter could only grin as Mr. Stark let out a cheery guffaw. It was a nice sound; like all the tension in the air had evaporated and left behind the remnants of a summer wind. The laughter only died down when Mr. Stark pulled up at the deserted parking lot by the Harry S. Truman Building. The building stretched far and wide on either side, cold and dull, reflecting the light of colourless sky. Bushes that lined the front of the building were shrivelled and small, and the windows were dark.

Mr. Stark killed the engine before climbing out of the car, Peter following. Crisp air greeted them like wary spirits, urging them to turn back if they could. Peter headed for the doors to the building, batting away the snowflakes that blew into his face.

He yanked the door open, waiting for Mr. Stark to rush inside before he did himself. The warm interior felt cold against Peter's fingertips, but he knew after a while he would become accustomed to the heat.

The lobby of the Harry S. Truman Building was relatively empty, aside for a few people scattered here and there. The front desk was occupied by only one person: a woman with red hair in a crisp white shirt. She looked up with her pale green eyes as Peter and Mr. Stark lined up side by side at the front desk. The nametag clipped to her chest read _RUSHMAN_.

'Peter Parker,' Peter introduced. 'I have a meeting with Mr. Ross at ten this morning?'

Rushman's eyes were cold as she scrutinised Peter; he guessed it wasn't everyday a teenager would request a meeting with the Secretary of State. Rushman glanced down at her computer, searching through a few documents and tables before standing up and smoothing out her black pencil skirt, waving a hand to a door on their right. 'This way,' she said simply; her Russian accent was light and fluid, easily melding into an American tone.

Peter and Mr. Stark followed Rushman through a door and down a quiet, barren corridor. She guided them to an elevator, where they all filed inside and waited. Rushman pressed a button, and the elevator crawled upward.

It took only a few minutes of waiting and strolling until they reached a door on the topmost level of the building. Rushman tapped her pale wrist to the door and called, 'Mr. Ross?'

There was grumbling from behind the door, and Ross' voice emanated from the other side, 'Come in.'

Rushman pushed the door to the Secretary of State's office open. It was a wide space and relatively empty, devoid of things like files and notebooks, probably the result of that overseas trip Ross had been talking about. The blinds were drawn open and white light filled the room, with a pair of large pot plants situated on either side of the window. Sitting behind a mahogany desk in a black chair in the centre of the room was Ross himself, looking both unoccupied and thoughtful.

He smiled when Peter entered the room. 'Ah, Peter! Good to see you,' said Ross, standing up and leaning over his desk to shake hands.

'It's good to see you too, Mr. Ross,' Peter said, shaking Ross' hand and stepping back to let Mr. Stark and Ross greet each other.

No handshake passed between them. 'It's been a while, Stark,' commented Ross. 'Happy to see a man like yourself hasn't completely dropped off the face of the Earth.'

'Yeah, well, duty calls for a businessman like me, Ross,' replied Mr. Stark curtly.

Ross smiled again, his moustache flickering with every deep breath he took. He turned to Rushman and said, 'Thank you.'

Rushman nodded, and was about to turn around and leave when Ross said, 'But, Ms. Rushman, I think you should stay.'

Peter saw the way Rushman froze, her posture tensing just slightly. But the minuscule movement only lasted for a fraction of a second; it was a miracle Peter had ever seen her twitch like that. Rushman brushed a lock of her red hair from her face and closed the door.

Ross sank back into his seat and was about to gesture for Peter and Mr. Stark to sit as well when he realised the only chair in the room was the one he was sitting in. He cleared his throat, then said, 'Well. Alright, Peter, what is it that you wanted to discuss with me?'

'The superhuman Steve Rogers,' Peter said. 'He was the one that orchestrated the broadcast two days ago. I...We think there might be some things you know that could help us investigate the rogue superhumans.'

Ross nodded. 'Alright. So, what do we already know?' Ross tapped his fingers against his desk to no specific rhythm; just a mindless drone in the silence of the room. 'Superhumans. They first emerged during the time of World War II; our country was being pushed to the limits – running low on weaponry and soldiers – and needed all the reinforcements she could get. Thankfully—'

Ross pointed a thick finger at Mr. Stark, who seemed to be trying very hard to not recoil at the gesture. '—Howard Stark engineered a biotechnological breakthrough: superhumans. When a country doesn't have the weapons or the soldiers, why not combine both? The first was Captain America...Steve Rogers. He served our country well, fought alongside human soldiers as well as a few other superhuman comrades. They turned the tide of the war and, well, history paints itself.'

Peter nodded. 'So how does Steve Rogers appear now? Today?'

'That's the thing,' Ross said. 'At the peak of the war, when the Axis powers were moments from crumbling, Rogers went offline. The Army's communication to him was cut off. Captain America was lost.'

'But he's back now,' Mr. Stark said lowly. 'At the hands of S.H.I.E.L.D. Is there reason to believe you found him shortly after his disappearance?'

'You aren't a member of the government, Stark,' reminded Ross snidely. 'The reasons stay with me.'

Peter's eyebrows furrowed. 'The number of rogue superhumans increased after Rogers' appearance, Mr. Ross. He might be a planning a revolution.'

'A revolution for _freedom_ ,' Ross pointed out. 'Not a harmless thing, don't you think? I think all beings crave freedom – even when they are bathed in it.'

'We aren't here to discuss philosophy, Ross,' Mr. Stark ground out. 'Either tell us something that might be helpful, like say, I don't know, why you had Rogers locked up in the first place, and how he was spooked enough to round up other rogue superhumans.'

Ross pursed his lips, and then cocked his head. 'What about you, Peter?' he asked. 'Whose side are you on?'

Peter resisted the urge to whip out his pen and throw it as Ross' face. 'It's not about me, Mr. Ross,' he said quietly. 'I just want to solve this case, just like from the very beginning.'

Ross chuckled. 'That's what you think we expect from you,' he said airily. 'But you...' He leaned over his desk, his face a few inches from Peter's own. '...what do _you_ want?'

Peter's breathing quickened. He could hear his own heartbeat echo weakly in his ears as blood rushed to his head. Curse this man who constantly tried to twist words to his will. 'I don't want anything,' Peter said calmly. 'All I want is for no one to get caught in the crossfire.'

Silence filled the room as Ross registered Peter's words. The man nodded slowly, then called, 'Ms. Rushman.'

Peter almost forgot the woman was in the room with them. Her hair swayed as she walked over towards Ross, her muscles tense and coiled like a cobra's, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

She walked to stand by Ross as he stood up. They moved to stand in front of the desk, prompting Peter and Mr. Stark to move back a little. Ross leaned against his desk, resting a large hand on Rushman's petite shoulder.

'Ms. Rushman has been one of the most hard-working workers I've seen,' Ross said softly. 'Diligent. Proud of the country she serves. But, I admit, it took me a while to uncover it myself, but...' Ross pushed his hand on Rushman's shoulder, and she sunk to her knees on the ground beside Ross.

Peter opened his mouth to say something when Ross held up a hand to silence him. '"Natalie Rushman" was a cover for Russian spy Natalia Romanova,' said Ross. 'It's been some time, but the Russians have been wanting America's secrets for the superhumans for years.' He sneered at the woman at his feet. 'She was planning to assassinate me at the end of the week so she could retrieve the data on the superhumans; unlucky for you, Romanova, I don't plan on dying anytime soon.'

'If she was an assassin, why do you have her sticking around for so long?' demanded Mr. Stark.

'Oh, well, you see...' Ross leaned backward and slipped his hand into a drawer. 'I wanted to see what Peter thought about this.'

Ross held out a loaded handgun to Peter.

The world fell into silence, powerful and overwhelming like the vacuum of space. Peter's words and his breaths were sucked out of him when he saw the surprise spark and hiss in _Natalia_ 's eyes.

Mr. Stark looked just as horrified as Peter felt, raising a hand to summon his gauntlet. 'Now wait just a—'

'Easy, I'm not the one firing,' Ross explained as he leaned forward to push the firearm into Peter's closed fist. Peter tried to push him away, but shock rendered him slow and Ross slid the gun into his hand, squeezing Peter's fingers around the handle and the trigger with his own. 'The gun is loaded with darts. Each one is filled with liquid strychnine; one shot is enough to kill a grown man.' Upon Peter's petrified look, Ross elaborated, 'I'm the Secretary of State; hundreds out there want to kill me every day. Better to be prepared than lying dead in my own office.'

'I think we're done here,' Mr. Stark growled darkly, shifting his weight on his legs.

'Shoot her,' Ross whispered into Peter's ear, tightening his grip on Peter's hand, 'and I'll tell you anything you need to know. She won't be able to listen in, won't be able to run back to her country and tell them our secrets.'

'He's a child,' murmured Natalia; her first words in a long time. 'You cannot force him to do your bidding.'

'He is a man of the law,' sneered Ross, 'and he will do what it takes to preserve the government and its people.'

' _Come on_ , Peter,' Mr. Stark urged, stepping backwards, as if he was hoping for Peter to judo-flip Ross out of the window. 'I'm sure we have plenty other leads to follow—'

'If you spare her, however,' Ross continued, pushing Peter slightly forward so that the gun was aimed at Natalia's forehead, 'you will leave me at the hands of an assassin, and my death will be on your hands. Chaos will reign once I'm dead, and you won't have any information to stop what's coming.'

' _Peter_ ,' Mr. Stark insisted.

Peter dug his feet into the ground, trying to push himself back, but Ross stood behind him like a wall, whispering words in the way the Devil might whisper lies to an innocent.

'Choose, Peter,' Ross murmured. His fingers curled around Peter's, threatening to apply the destined pressure that would pull the trigger down. 'Choose your side. Will you stop at nothing to protect the government and freeze the revolution in its tracks...or will you let the guilty sneak right by you and spread chaos through the country?'

The gun in Peter's hand shook. He could feel Mr. Stark's gaze bore into the side of his head like lasers. He could see Natalia shake her head ever so slightly; what for, he couldn't tell. His heart hammered in his chest, and the edges of his vision pulsated with each heartbeat.

If Natalia had wanted Ross dead, she would have done it by now.

Peter could see it; her lithe build, strong and fast but hidden under a veil of a petite figure. Peter knew she could hold her own, but for some reason, she held back.

Just like Peter. He could kill, he was sure of that – he could crush skulls, snap necks, and do so much more that it almost hurt his head just thinking about it. He had all that power...but he wasn't one to take the life of another. Even if it meant losing the last piece to the puzzle, Peter wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing the blood on his hands was from his own doing.

Using his strength, Peter pushed against Ross' hand, bringing the gun down and pointing the barrel at his feet. 'I won't kill her,' Peter almost hissed at Ross. 'I can arrest her for you, but I won't kill her.'

It was silent in the room.

Peter's sixth sense tingled.

Ross chuckled then, yanking the gun out of Peter's hand and slipping it into his pocket. He reached up to ruffle Peter's hair, roughly and passionately, as if he was a mentor proud of the work his student accomplished. Ross' fingernails scraped against Peter's scalp, and he shivered at the cold touch when Ross' fingers pressed against the base of his head. Peter's sixth sense spiked and hissed.

'Oh, Peter,' Ross murmured, almost disappointedly, stepping out from behind him, still gripping the gun. 'I had faith in you, you know. I thought you were one of the better ones out there...'

Peter watched Ross retreat back to his desk, leaning against it casually, as if he hadn't just threatened the life of a woman or forced a person to hold a gun against their own will. Peter couldn't remember when his fingers started shaking.

'Humanity's last hope,' Ross said loudly, 'is lost. A _rogue_.'

'I'm...' gasped Peter. 'I'm not a rogue.'

'Believe what you want to believe, Peter.' Ross placed his hand on Natalia's shoulder again, before staring darkly into Peter's eyes. 'A war is coming. You have to choose. Betray your people, or stand up to your own creators.'

'Alright, I know the end of a meeting when I see one.' Mr. Stark pushed himself forward and wrapped an arm around Peter's chest, pulling him back and towards the door to the exit. 'Cheers, Ross. Hope you have a messed up a week.'

'Good luck, Peter,' Ross said too airily, too lightly.

Peter didn't have a chance to say anything back, because Mr. Stark had pushed him out of the door and slammed it shut. They both stood outside, breathing deep breaths. 'That's it,' Mr. Stark muttered finally. He placed a hand on the centre of Peter's back and spurred them both forward. 'That's it, we're leaving. Never coming back to this God forsaken place, Jesus Christ—'

Peter forced himself to take deep breaths. _In, out, in, out_. He looked out the window, at the grey world outside, and remembered Ross' cold fingers against his skin. _In, out, in, out_. Even colder words boiled relentlessly in Peter's head, like a chant, a poem, a line of a song stuck in a loop. _In, out, in, out—_

How could he stay calm? The world was crumbling around Peter at every angle – from the moral perspective, from the civil, from the political. Relationships didn't seem to last long, and plans were caught on fire just as quickly.

Peter's world had literally turned inside-out in a matter of days.

'Just curious,' Mr. Stark started as he pushed the door open and sent them both stumbling outside into the cold. 'Why didn't you shoot?'

Peter let out a sound of despair. 'Because I didn't want to,' Peter told him exasperatedly, turning around to see Mr. Stark standing a little higher up on the stairs to the Harry S. Truman Building. 'I can't shoot, I can't kill. That's...I looked at her, and she seemed ready to die. Not by my hands.' Peter sighed, gesturing expansively.

'Not even when we've basically lost every chance in solving your investigation?' asked Mr. Stark softly. 'I saw you as a person who did everything they could to finish a job...but you let that chance go...'

_You decided that maybe trying to arrest this fellow might compensate for me accidentally slipping and breaking my neck? Thought that chasing some rascal might save the world?_

Peter shook his head. 'I'm not that kind of person, Mr. Stark.' He looked up at the man. 'Whatever you thought before, I'm not that. Not anymore.'

Mr. Stark descended the next few stairs until he was on the same step as Peter. His eyes were dark in the bright environment around them. Mist hung in the air between them as the minutes ticked by.

Then Mr. Stark smiled. 'You learn quick, Spider-Boy,' he said warmly.

Peter felt the man's arm on his shoulder as he directed them both back to Mr. Stark's car. The trek was short and quiet, and while the breeze had stopped, the walk to the car was accompanied by small snowflakes fluttering down into their hair and onto their shoulders.

It was almost enough for Peter to ignore the sudden _fwit_ from inside the building. The sound of a body crumpling to the ground was heard, unmistaken, by his enhanced senses.

His sixth sense writhed, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That thing? That possibly very noticeable and suspicious thing that just happened? It's important


	12. ⌜Two Sides of a War⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh hooo me did my first F-bomb in fanfic history

_**⌞Chapter 12⌝ ≎ ⌜Two Sides of a War⌟** _

'You're off the case.'

Peter blinked. The drive to the NYPD precinct was quick once Peter received a notification on his phone. When he and Mr. Stark had entered the quiet workspace, the number of staff present was visibly smaller. Peter couldn't spot any fellow superhumans in the workspace.

'What?'

Peter's voice was small in Fury's office. Mr. Stark hung back by the door, watching the exchange between Peter and Fury in silence.

'The FBI is taking over,' elaborated Fury, dark eye glinting.

'But...but we're onto something,' defended Peter, stepping forward. 'We...we just need more time. I'm sure we can—'

'Parker,' snapped Fury, 'you don't understand. This isn't some investigation that can get extended. We're on the verge of a fucking civil war! It's out of our hands now; national security will take it from here.'

'You can't do that!' Peter argued, his sixth sense tingling. 'We're so close! You can't just stop us from finishing this, not when we're so close to the answers. We can solve this!'

Fury shook his head slowly. 'There's nothing I can do,' he said; he sounded sullen, a first for him. Fury sighed. 'You were one of our best, Parker, I can vouch for that. But you're a mutant. And at the moment, the government doesn't seem to like mutants all that much.'

'Just give him more time,' Mr. Stark spoke up from his spot by the door. 'Maybe a few days; you're right, he is the best out there, but just give him a chance—'

'The government has made its decision,' Fury said flatly. 'I'm sure you've been receiving emails from them?'

Mr. Stark faltered.

Peter's eyes furrowed. 'What...Mr. Stark, what is he saying?'

The man hung his head.

'The government plans to eradicate all superhumans on American soil,' Fury answered for him. 'To round them up, ship them back to Stark Industries, where they will be permanently decommissioned.'

Only the sound of breathing was heard in the overwhelming silence of the office.

Peter's head whipped to face Mr. Stark's. Guilt was etched in every crease of Mr. Stark's face. His glasses did a poor job of hiding that.

Fury had the audacity to look sorrowful when he glanced up at Peter. 'You've served the New York Police Department well, Mr. Parker,' he said quietly. 'I'll make sure your name doesn't get lost in the paperwork.'

Peter pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. His hands shook and his sixth sense hissed and with a curt _Thank you_ , Peter stepped backwards and pushed himself out of the door, trying to ignore Mr. Stark's hurt expression. Once outside, Peter growled to himself as he climbed down the steps to Fury's office and trudged back towards his own desk, looking bare and empty now that someone had decided to clear away the trinkets that framed it.

He sunk into his chair and raked his hands through his messy hair. He wished Michelle and Ned were here. He wished he could talk to them, discuss future plans or make fun of random things to get his mind off the inevitable.

After all, Peter wasn't one who was going to go down easily. Hopefully.

'Hey, kid?' came a voice. Peter turned to see Mr. Stark walking in his direction, steps quick and quiet. That look of hurt still painted his face, and Peter almost wanted to turn away from him.

Mr. Stark sunk into the seat next to Peter's desk – the same one he had sat in three days ago.

A lot of things happened in those three days.

'Kid?' asked Mr. Stark again.

'How long?' Peter asked instead, voice stiff. 'How long have you known about this?'

'Only a few days ago,' Mr. Stark admitted softly, looking down. His black hair looked brown, almost as brown as Peter's, streaked with grey in the pale white light of the workspace around them. He looked older. 'Stark Industries did a damn well job of keeping me out of the loop.'

'Why didn't you tell me sooner?'

'I thought we might have more time,' insisted Mr. Stark. 'Another week, if we were lucky. No one at Stark Industries looked like they were setting up equipment to kill you superhumans off.'

Peter sighed. 'It would have helped,' he said lowly, 'if I had known sooner. I might have roughed up the guys we encountered. Might have gotten information quicker, more efficiently—'

'You're not that kind of person,' Mr. Stark said.

'—but now time's run out, and hundreds of superhumans will be trudging into your factories and killed because I failed to complete my mission!' snapped Peter. His voice echoed once, twice, in the near-empty workplace. Peter couldn't care less about the people staring at him in dismay. 'I could have solved this! I could have fixed this! I could have done something _better_ than what I already did, and there would have been _progress_ —'

'I'm not sure if you've noticed, Peter,' Mr. Stark interrupted, 'but you are killing yourself.'

Peter huffed. 'Obviously. Since I seem to be dying over and over—'

'You're _obsessed_ ,' Mr. Stark emphasised. 'You're _killing yourself_ because you can't _let go_. You have been obsessed ever since I first met you. You're willing to put yourself on the line, over and over, because you think you can stop a train when it's barrelling at you at a hundred miles an hour.' Mr. Stark sighed. 'That's why I didn't tell you. You would push yourself towards the breaking point – a place _no one_ should go to.'

_How long will it take for our Junior Detective to fall off the deep end?_

Peter frowned, turning away. 'That's not...I'm not _obsessed_ , it's just...this mission, it's important. If I don't solve this, everyone could be in danger.'

'That's another problem.' Mr. Stark leaned forward and tapped Peter's sternum. 'You _never_ seem to give a damn about yourself. All I hear is you trying to protect the people, but how can you do that if you can't protect yourself?'

'I can protect myself just fine,' Peter said coolly.

'You know that's not what I meant,' Mr. Stark replied just as swiftly. 'You're a living library of hurt, Peter.'

Peter huffed a dry laugh. 'When did you get so poetic, Mr. Stark?'

Mr. Stark ignored Peter's comment, saying, 'You have issues, I can see that, and while I don't know what they specifically are, it's eating you from the inside out. Hell, our meeting with Ross messed you up inside. And having stuff always gnawing at you all the time, it's...' Mr. Stark's eyebrows furrowed in desperation. '...it's not good.'

What exactly was Mr. Stark trying to get at? Was he trying to say that Peter should just...keel and roll over, accept that he failed? Failed the people he was supposed to protect? His whole career only kickstarted because Peter hadn't wanted to see another innocent person to fall victim of a tragedy. He wanted people to _live their lives_ , not strapped to a ventilator or fed through tubes or buried in a grave.

'When have my issues ever become a concern to you?' asked Peter.

'Ever since you became my partner!'

Peter's face scrunched up. ' _Your_ partner? You were the one who wanted to back out of the precinct every five seconds! How could say you possibly cared when all you wanted to do was run and hide? Push yourself away from life as if you were already dead?'

A dark and wounded expression flashed across Mr. Stark's face; his eyes darkened behind his glasses. Peter's heart thudded as he registered his own words, but he didn't say anything more. It was probably a horrid thing to say, especially considering what the man had gone through, but it was a painful truth; nothing could stop that.

'I heard the FBI is coming soon,' Peter spoke up softly. 'If they get their hands on the evidence we collected, it's over. I'm going back to see if there is anything I can find.'

Mr. Stark suddenly straightened to his feet, staring deeply into Peter's eyes. 'In my personal and somewhat useless opinion,' he said quietly, whispering, 'what if we are fighting on the wrong side, hmm?' Upon Peter's glower, Mr. Stark said, 'What if we're fighting against a people who just want to be free? You of all people know what it would be like to deserve a bit freedom.'

Peter stared just as coldly back at Mr. Stark. 'Freedom would mean something if there wasn't any chaos to go with it.'

Mr. Stark sighed through his nose, as if the inevitable outcome made itself known to him. 'There's a place under my Tower you could always retreat to,' he said, 'for, I don't know, _back up_ if you ever need it; I call it The Raft, 'cause it might save your life. Might be a rough start at first, just saying, not everyone gets along so easily down there. Your Stark Industries ID should work just fine.'

Mr. Stark glanced up at Peter, but he made no attempt to consider the man's offer. The latter hung his head for a moment as he registered Peter's cold look, fiddling with his fingernails, then Mr. Stark said, 'You're going to kill yourself, Peter. And I'm not going to be a part of it.' He looked at Peter and straightened his own jacket. 'Happy trails, kid.'

And then Mr. Stark stepped away from the desk and walked towards the exit of the precinct, not sparing a glance at Peter who had risen from his seat to see him go. The workspace seemed a little closer when the man had left.

There was an ache in Peter's chest, but he forced himself to ignore when he heard the precinct doors slide open. A pair of footsteps, and stepping into the workspace was Special Agent Davis guided by a few police officers, clad in a dark suit. Peter watched as they lingered in the area beyond the desks and worktables, talking amongst each other. Davis pulled out his phone and began talking to someone in a hushed voice.

The reality of the situation then hit Peter like a truck.

Mr. Stark had kept Peter from knowing about him being "decommissioned", as Fury had so eloquently put it, and the news popped out at the worst time; Peter was off the rogue superhuman case, said some pretty bad things to Mr. Stark who in turn decided to bail on Peter, and now the FBI was sticking their nose in the last pieces of evidence Peter had collected in hopes of solving the case themselves.

Right. Not a rather interesting day. _Infuriating_ would be a better word.

Peter gave himself two minutes – two minutes to sneak into the NYPD's archive room, find any sort of lead that might help him figure out where the rogue superhumans were. They made it clear they had a base somewhere...somewhere upstate, if Peter recalled the superhuman Bucky's words right.

Davis glanced at his watch. It looked like he was on the clock, too – maybe a diversion would be great on Peter's part.

Looking around, Peter's eyes landed on the temporary holding cells tucked away in the corner of the workspace – there were five, lined up side by side with plexiglass doors and reinforced with steel frames. Four of them were empty; the closest one was occupied by Herman Schultz.

Peter briskly made his way back to the holding to the holding cells, making sure that Agent Davis wasn't watching him move. Backing himself to the wall, watching as Schultz rubbed his fingers together, Peter strode past, his fingers brushing against the identification scanner placed by the door.

The scanner buzzed as it picked up his fingerprints. It dinged, and the cell door popped open without a sound, but Peter didn't need to turn around to see if anything would happen.

Peter had just walked to the other side of the workplace, to the corridor that led to the bathrooms and the archives, when he heard a dull _thwap_ from the opposite end of the precinct and loud shouting. He glanced back to see Davis on his butt, cradling his cheek as if he had been punched; the police officers accompanying Davis were running for the exit, yelling, meaning Schultz had taken his chance of escape pretty seriously.

Smiling, Peter tucked his hands into his pocket and strode quickly to the archives. It took everything in him to stop himself from speeding down the corridor and yanking the door open as he entered the small directory room that branched off to the main archives. The lights flickered on at Peter's presence, and he twisted around a few pot plants before arriving at the door leading to the archives holding his evidence.

He had reached for the door handle, his hand just grasping the cool metal when a voice called, 'Hey, Peter.'

Peter stiffened, his grip on the handle tight as he internally sighed upon recognising the tone of the person's voice.

Flash sauntered into the small room, killing every last brain cell in Peter's mind. Flash had a sneer on his face. 'I'm talking to you, asshole,' he said, then, glancing at Peter's hand on the door handle, asked, 'Where are you going? We don't need you mutant-heads around here anymore. Or maybe you didn't hear?'

Peter considered throwing Flash back out of the door, but the only other person Peter didn't want to see was Davis just outside – just by judging their first interaction, Peter knew Davis would throw hell if something didn't go his way.

'I've been removed from the case,' Peter answered honestly. 'I'm just going to turn in the new evidence and then I'm going to leave.'

That last part was a lie; he hadn't received any new evidence in the past two days, and his meeting with Ross provided no insight.

Flash nodded at Peter's response. 'Good. But you might want to watch your way back out...' He stalked towards Peter, hissing, 'Don't want you going down in a blaze, huh?'

Flash winked.

Peter just smiled as uncomfortably as he could.

The action was apparently not what Flash wanted, because he huffed and turned away, walking back down the path he came and stepping out of the small room.

It fell silent, and then Peter yanked the door open and slipped inside, shutting the door just as quickly. His heart picked up a little; for a moment, he thought Flash was going to pull some weird stunt, but luckily, he didn't. It would have been difficult to explain why someone would be lying on the ground unconscious.

Shaking off the previous few minutes, Peter figured he probably had five minutes to find a lead in his evidence now that a diversion had Davis' attention. Peter glanced at the stairs that led underground to the archive room and moved forward, taking two steps at a time. He made it to the bottom in a few seconds, where archives spread out before him like a museum. The lights were blazing in the dark room, highlighting the aisles of evidence and data for the cases taken over the years, both solved and abandoned. In front of each aisle was a steel door, preventing anyone from swiping evidence.

The aisle Peter used to store his evidence for the rogue superhuman case was near the front; it was relatively empty with only a few boxes. He strode towards the door, tapped his identification card against the scanner by the door and waited for the door to slide open. It moved with a quiet _whoosh_. Moving quickly, Peter scanned through boxes and their contents.

A record of Pietro Maximoff's application to work with the Toomes family and a written translation of his wordings on August 9th, the day he took Liz Toomes hostage.

A series of photographs of Henry Pym's home and Janet Van Dyne's frantic writings of " _The Captain brings light to superhumans_ " and " _WE AREN'T FREAKS – GIVE US OUR FREEDOM_ ", and her small statuette hidden in the bathroom on November 5th.

A pile of papers, news reports and Braille-covered sheets on Extremis, photographs of markings and the diary found in the apartment Matthew Murdock was staying in on November 6th.

A tablet with only the recording of The Captain's – Steve Rogers' – broadcast and his demands for the rights and freedom of the superhuman people on November 7th.

A small paper with the words from Bucky's memory scrawled upon it, reading " _The Compound, Warehouse #21, NY_ ".

A plethora of secrets, and yet Peter had found nothing.

 _There has to be something here_ , Peter thought. _Something that can tell me about where the superhuman base is._

Peter's eyes landed on the photographs of Pym's home. He brought them forward and sifted through them. Maybe there was something he missed; he had only searched for clues for Van Dyne's hiding place, not any other things related to The Captain.

A few photos in, and Peter realised Van Dyne had nothing to hide in Pym's home; she had literally had nothing but hope to begin with.

Then Peter turned to the files that had been in Murdock's possession. Most of the files resembled the ones Mr. Stark had given him on Extremis, so Peter pushed those aside. He focused on the papers that _hadn't_ been translated from Braille, the ones that had been left blank except for the idents in the page.

While learning Braille might be fun, Peter didn't have the time to memorise each symbol. He brought out his phone and opened up his translation app that he had installed recently. He set the _Translate From_ option to _Braille_ and hovered the phone camera over the text.

A few seconds later, a rough translation popped up. Peter read through it hungrily...then realised it was more information on Extremis. He flipped to another page and translated it, but that was one was describing the degrading health of Extremis users. And so did the next one, and the next one after that.

Peter growled, frustrated that he had wasted a few of the precious minutes he had left. There was nothing here! Not one of these things provided anymore information that could have been useful. All there was in this archive was a video, a statue, and—

 _The diary_.

Sixth sense humming, Peter paused. He turned to the diary, sitting innocently amongst the scattered papers around it. It was bright in the lights overhead, almost like it was taunting Peter for not having realised sooner.

A sound of relief escaping from his lips, Peter scrambled for the small book, flipping it open to a random page and shoving his phone over it. The translation app did its magic, quickly translating from Braille back to English. Peter read through the results:

"— _couple of superhumans. They came to me after having been attacked by a man of the name Helmut Zemo and sought for help. I could not provide any of the sufficient kind, so I gave them the slip passed onto me when I was first lost—_ "

The name _Zemo_ had a bell ringing in Peter's head. It was spoken in Bucky's memory, and what he had said matched up with Murdock's writing, about being assaulted by a man named Zemo.

Peter's eyes skimmed over the words again: _I gave them the slip passed onto me when I was first lost._

Murdock was the one who gave them the slip?

That must have meant Murdock had gone to the superhuman base before and returned. It had to be written in here.

Peter flipped to the pages a little earlier in the book, his eyes quickly scanning the translated text for the key words. He had skipped at least twenty, when finally, he found what he was looking for:

"— _gave me the paper and said I could find sanctuary should I ever need it. Danny Rand had said the Compound was in one of the abandoned Stark Industries warehouses upstate. Possibly labelled '21' because it had been the twenty-first warehouse to be dismantled after Stark said he was discontinuing his father's dream of manufacturing weapons—_ "

 _The Compound, Warehouse #21, NY_.

The words from Bucky's memory came floating back to Peter: _It's apparently an abandoned warehouse, left by Stark_.

 _Is he even alive?_ Bucky had asked.

 _Not the one that we used to know. No_ , Rogers had replied.

They were referring to Howard Stark. And Howard Stark had founded Stark Industries as a weapons manufacturer before producing superhumans, and Tony Stark inherited his father's work before shutting down the weapons development facilities of the company. The warehouse had been the twenty-first of many left alone after that.

The pieces fit together. Tension wriggled off Peter's shoulders when the answer beamed at him like stars printed on the pages in his fingers.

_There you are._

The sounds of footsteps jolted Peter back to the present. Someone was coming.

Dropping the book and shoving his phone into his pocket, Peter ran out of the aisle, not bothering to close the door behind him as he leapt to the ceiling. He splayed his hands against the cold ceiling, letting his adhesiveness keep him from falling back down.

The footsteps came closer, and Peter pressed himself closer to the ceiling as he watched someone enter the archive room: Agent Davis. He was talking softly into his phone as he moved towards the aisles, a dark bruise blossoming on his cheek.

Then Davis glanced at the open door to the aisle leading to the evidence of the rogue superhuman case. He hurried over to it, mumbling, 'The door's open, maybe someone broke in, no signs of forced entry, though—'

That was Peter's cue to leave. He scrambled across the ceiling back towards the exit, silent as a spider. He crawled up the ceiling above the stairs, then quietly dropped to the floor and slid out the door. He strode out of the corridor and into the workspace, glancing at his bare desk and the seats left askew on both sides.

Faltering for a moment, Peter dimly wondered where Mr. Stark was right now. He would have been relieved to find out where the superhumans were, and he would immediately pull up the location of the warehouse—

 _No, Tony Stark isn't coming_ , Peter told himself. _He left. And that's fine. You can do this yourself._

Inhaling deeply, Peter stepped through the precinct, purpose in every step. He turned his body to reach for the cabinet where the NYPD stored their quickly-disposed handguns and hid it in the pocket of his coat. He had only just made it to the exit when he heard people talking loudly, nearly yelling at each other – the main words echoing through the quiet precinct being _The archives are open, someone has been here_.

No doubt they would check the cameras. No doubt they would look through the history of employees and officers signing in and out. No doubt they would find out it was Peter.

But Peter had a mission. And there was nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> *plays James Bond theme*


	13. ⌜Day of Reckoning⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mission Impossible music intENSIFIES*

**_⌞Chapter 13⌝ ≎ ⌜Day of Reckoning⌟_ **

Peter’s journey to the Compound upstate wasn’t easy. As he walked briskly away from the New York Police Department, he had realised that waltzing into their base wearing his uniform and wielding a gun would probably work as well as trying to walk through Murdock’s apartment filled with panicking pigeons. Except these pigeons were superpowered and could kill him in seconds.

He’d need a disguise to blend in. Pretend he was another lost superhuman, a rogue, looking for safety. He could buy new clothes, hide the armlet that stuck out like a sore thumb everywhere he went.

But even if he tried to buy clothes, they wouldn’t do much help anyway. Clothes bought by superhumans would always change to let people know who they were; they burned away at the sleeves, and the armlets would show no matter what. Buying outfits wasn’t an option.

So after a quick stop to the nearest convenient store to buy a thick wad of gauze bandage rolls, Peter found himself scavenging through dumpsters and bins filled with discarded clothing left by the Salvation Army. He picked articles of clothing that were thick and baggy and stuffed them into a bag he found along the way.

Once that was done, Peter made a beeline for Stark Industries. His plan was to ask where abouts the warehouses were located without raising suspicion, and then quickly leave. It was fairly simple.

But it didn’t help that he hesitated when he first thought of the idea.

Nevertheless, with the bag full of clothes hiding behind him, Peter walked up to the lady at the front desk and asked, ‘Excuse me, it’s Peter Parker.’ When the woman looked up, he asked, ‘Would you mind telling me where the old weapons manufacturing warehouses are?’

The woman pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Why would you want to know, Mr. Parker?’ she asked lowly.

Peter blinked rather blankly. ‘I, uh, my friend happened to stumble upon the warehouses and left his phone behind. He asked me if I could retrieve it for him.’

‘Why didn’t you just use the phone’s GPS?’

‘Why didn’t I— ha, well, uh, you see…’ Peter scratched the back of his neck, and his sixth sense buzzed furiously. It was all it had been doing all day and it unnerved him. ‘Well, I didn’t want to enter prohibited Stark Industries property, right? It would be better if I had permission.’

The woman stared at Peter for a few more moments, then sighed, relenting. ‘Was there a particular one you wanted to look for, Mr. Parker?’

‘Um, run me through warehouses fifteen to twenty-five upstate, thank you,’ Peter told her, and the woman clicked around her computer and brought up the list of all the warehouses.

* * *

It was nightfall by the time Peter had made it to Warehouse #21. Darkness lingered like a blanket as the hills stretched on like a dark ocean, cold and chilling, unlike Bucky’s warm and somewhat pleasant memory from when he and Rogers had drove down the same gravel path Peter walked along. There were large, thick clouds that hung in the sky, blocking out the faint light the stars and the waning moon managed to provide.

Before he left, Peter had ducked into an alley on the outskirts of New York City and shoved himself into the clothes he had found. Before he put the shirt and jacket on, Peter had grabbed the gauze and wrapped it firmly around his armlet. The blue light softened and dulled as the layers piled up around Peter’s bicep, blocking the armlet from view. Once that was dealt with, Peter had slipped on the baggy jeans and the dark blue shirt and the puffy leather jacket, topping the outfit off with a grey beanie on his head; a few of his curls at his hairline stuck out from underneath, but Peter made no move to hide them away.

It was a fairly decent disguise. It looked like had just taken a long trek.

Which, to be fair, he had.

Another silent half hour later, as he was rubbing his fingers against his web shooters, Peter heard it: voices. Faint, almost non-existent, but there, nonetheless. Steps quickening, Peter found himself jogging towards the sounds, running through the darkness with his sixth sense hissing and spitting. The gun in the waistband of his jeans dug painfully into his thigh. The gravel path faded away and the hills converged until trees began springing forth, turning the world Peter even darker than it had already been. Leaves and twigs snapped and crunched underfoot, sounding loud in the darkness but not quite resonant to dull the sounds of people speaking.

A few minutes later and Peter burst out from the trees, stumbling and catching himself nimbly. He looked up…and there it was. Warehouse #21, The Compound. It was a flat but wide building, its white sheen turning grey from disuse and dull lighting. The signature _Stark Industries_ burned black against the pale wall even after years of disuse and abandonment. The sounds of a gushing river filled the air, and Peter could see the flickering lights of water moving behind the building. Thick wire fences outlined the perimeter of the warehouse, preventing anyone from passing through.

And yet, the voices were much louder here.

Peter turned his head, his enhance hearing tuning to the sounds around him, and he spotted a door to warehouse propped open. There was a gap, not an inch wide, but Peter could see and the light the flickered from it.

Quickly, silently, Peter scurried up to the fence and tried to find an opening. There was one a few feet away, like someone had peeled through it and left it open.

Before he could slip through it, his sixth reeled and yanked him back from the fence; the wire and the open space between them flickered with some golden light, like it been doused with orange fire. It reminded Peter of the orange sparks Ned had told him earlier when they had gone to investigate at the Daily Bugle.

So the fence wasn’t an option; the rogues had taken the liberty to set up some defences. Okay, then. Peter looked up at the top of the fence; it couldn’t have been more than three, four metres high, and the gold light didn’t seem to reach up higher than five metres.

Stepping back from where he stood, Peter positioned himself, facing the fence from about twenty metres back. He tensed his muscles, then ran forward. The space between him and the fence shrunk rapidly; he was only a few feet from the fence when he jumped. Peter tucked himself forward, pulling himself into a front flip and clearing the fence and its defences easily. He landed in crouch quietly, a small plume of dust rising from his feet.

Huffing in pride, Peter stood up and straightened his jeans and jacket which had crinkled and pulled awkwardly around his body when he jumped; he tried to cover the lump where his gun was hidden with his jacket.

Peter glanced up at The Compound standing before him, blocking the light of the moon. The door leading inside was right in front of him. His humming sixth sense hadn’t stopped, but it was soft, so Peter deduced that there were no more defences; just defensive superhumans.

He strode up to the door and pulled it open halfway, just enough so that he could slip himself inside through the smallest opening possible to lessen his chances of being spotted.

The sounds multiplied around him, and Peter suddenly found himself swamped in the middle of a huge group of superhumans, all chatting closely to one another. The inside of the warehouse was maze-like and relatively dark, only mostly shrouded in shadows and lit up in certain areas by small fires, lamps or from a few glowing superhumans. There were platforms accessible by a few stairways, and rooms whose windows were dark and clear. Along a few walls were flashing images – a news report, its light blazing onto the wall from a projector hanging limply on the railing on one of the platforms.

The warehouse had been cleared and mostly emptied; all its equipment had been brushed to one side to allow more space for the supplies the superhumans had gathered – like the ionised blood supply that had been stolen a few days ago. Beside these supplies were medical beds where wounded superhumans lay; a few other tended to them and murmured soft words.

Pulling his beanie down his head, Peter navigated from his point of arrival and through the crowd of superhumans. He counted, he listened, he avoided. There were a lot more superhumans than he expected – while the NYPD had tallied up two hundred and forty-three cases in New York alone, there must be at least five hundred superhumans gathered in this one place; the amount of radiation produced from everyone’s ionised blood should have appeared easily on a radar or satellite imaging.

Casting his dismay at the lack of awareness aside, Peter tried scanning the warehouse for a possible place Steve Rogers may be occupying. He listened, trying to pick up any mention of his name anywhere, but with the muddle of speaking and crackling and shuffling, that proved a little difficult.

Peter had shuffled over to one of the stairs. His eyes flitted over the superhumans present, seeing if he could spot a familiar face or two.

His stomach boiled in horror when he saw two children sitting side by side on a crate in front of him. They were identical, with bright blue eyes and pale skin. The only differences were that one had dark black hair while the other was blonde with the roots a brown. A pair of armlets glowed from underneath their red and green shirts.

Names he read a long time ago flitted to Peter’s mind – _Billy Kaplan and Tommy Shepherd_. He had been at Stark Industries long before his Junior Detective career, and he had opted to help out with organising files for the initial developments of some newer superhumans.

Billy and Tommy’s names were on the list, and as they sat before a silent Peter, he realised they couldn’t have been more than seven.

They were bringing _children_ into a war.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest at the sudden revelation. Peter tried to wrap his head around that— no, there was nothing _to_ wrap his head around. People were in danger, on _both sides_. The rogues were risking their own survival, their own people, for a dream. Once this civil war subsided, half the country would be in _ashes_.

A hand found Peter’s wrist.

He stiffened, and Peter looked down to the person sitting on a few wooden boxes beside the stairs. They were clothed in deep yellow, a hood of the same colour drooping down the back of their head, revealing it to be free of hair and smooth. Their eyes swirled with a multitude of colours, and a dark red mark was carved into the centre of their forehead.

Peter, at first, wasn’t sure how he knew that the person was a woman, but when she opened her mouth, her voice was soft and lilting, pained and quiet.

‘You’re lost,’ she said softly, her fingers rubbing against the bones in his wrist that jutted out from underneath his skin. ‘You’re looking for something…’

Peter pressed his lips into a thin line. The way the woman peered at him was like he was back in Stark Tower, strapped to a table with people glaring down at him as they poked him with needles and scalpels. Examined, secrets uncovered.

‘You’re looking for yourself,’ the woman said after a moment. She squeezed Peter’s hand, then it dropped away. The sudden loss of contact felt like Peter had been subsequently doused in ice, but Peter made sure the woman didn’t see him shiver.

The woman glanced at him one last time before closing her eyes, relaxing against the boxes as if she had retreated into a meditative state. Her hands rested on her knees, and they were tilted in a way so as it looked as if they were pointing up the stairs.

Peter brushed aside the cryptic knowledge the woman him; they were seeds of doubt, and the last thing Peter needed were for them to grow into trees of regret. He turned and climbed up the stairs, each step echoing softly. He reached the first platform and glanced at the windows to the dark rooms beyond them; they were all empty.

Peter considered going back and looking in another section of The Compound when the sounds around him dulled for a second and he heard a soft voice murmur, ‘Steve.’

Like a dog’s ears pricking their ears to the sound of their owner’s voice, Peter’s head snapped towards the sound of The Captain’s name. It emanated from a room on the far side of the platform, where its door was pushed close. Peter doubted he would have heard if the sounds of the world around him had dropped away from him in that lucky instant.

Quietly, Peter walked over to the door. The sign above the door read _EXTERIOR HEAD OFFICE_ , hinting there was possibly a room located on the outside the actual warehouse judging from the cold draft tickling Peter’s fingers. He pressed his fingers to the cold handle and pushed the door open, wincing at the low creaking sounds the door made.

Cold air hissed at him and his sixth sense hissed back as Peter pulled himself onto a platform outside. The door snapped shut with a click, and Peter glanced to his left to see a set of stairs leading up to the office the sign had previously mentioned. The door to the office was left open, and Peter could see a small flickering light inside, and the shadow of a few people as they murmured quietly.

He might get caught if someone leaned a little too far, peeked a little downward to where Peter stood in the open. Thinking quickly, Peter hauled himself over the railing and clung to the thin metal. He inched his way along the outside of the railing, sliding along before pushing himself to the underside of the office, feet and hands pressed against the dusty metal and concrete, holding him easily and without strain.

Mildly disgusted with the gunk that clung to the metal, Peter steeled his nerves and pressed the side of his head to the underside of the office, his ear easily catching the slightly muffled words that were thrown softly above him.

‘—short on ionised blood,’ a low, drawling voice intoned; he sounded like a man, tired of all the experience he was endowed with. ‘Not all of us are capable of harnessing our enhanced metabolism, and many are dying without the necessary equipment.’

‘I’ve heard that the humans are now conducting raids in all major cities and are taking superhumans back to Stark Industries to kill them,’ a female spoke up; she sounded young, sprightly, her accent thick and so painstakingly familiar.

‘It’s all our fault,’ the man said. ‘None of this would have happened if we had operated in the shadows.’

Peter frowned. The superhumans weren’t originally planning to lead a revolution?

A shuffle, as if someone had shifted their weight on their feet, and Peter heard Steve Rogers’ baritone voice rumble to life. ‘All we did was show them who we really are, Stephen,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t want war, but I’d rather die free than live as an outcast.’

‘That is your experience talking,’ the other man, Stephen, snapped back. ‘We are not living in 1939, Steve; we’re not fighting the Germans, and you’re not leading an army. The twenty-first century is much different and you know it!’

‘What is the point of being free if no one is left alive?’ asked the girl. Her voice wavered, as if she lost something great to her, too.

‘We were enslaved,’ Rogers said.

‘“Enslaved” is a rather powerful word,’ Stephen said snarkily; his attitude reminded Peter of Mr. Stark, and pang of guilt echoed in his chest. When the girl spoke up again, Peter struggled to pull those lingering feelings from his head and focus on she was saying.

‘Then what do we do, Steve?’ she asked.

‘Dialogue,’ Rogers informed. ‘I’ll go alone, and try to talk to them one last time.’

‘Don’t do this, Steve,’ the girl replied sharply, her voice raising. ‘They’ll kill you, like they killed my brother!’

Peter’s ears pricked up at that. The girl had a brother? That was odd; no superhumans were raised in that way. There was no genetic factor that paired superhumans together like a biological family. But the girl spoke with such venom, such anger and sorrow that it was hard to mistake it. And even with her few words, it felt like Peter had heard her speak before. But that couldn’t be – any superhuman he had investigated ended up dead or detained. Unless…

Peter’s eyes widened.

‘That may be, Wanda,’ Rogers told her, ‘but I have to try.’

It was like the breath had been sucked out of him. Wanda _Maximoff_? The girl who was supposed to take over Pietro’s work at the Toomes’ residence? How was she here?

Words from forms and papers and images of an angered Pietro flashed in Peter’s head. After Pietro had been apprehended, all transactions and orders to the Toomes family were cancelled and withdrawn. Wanda’s application to work for the family had been one of them.

She must have run after hearing her brother was apprehended. She must have joined the other rogues in hopes of revenge, to fight and to avenge her brother’s death and let the others pay for their mistakes.

Peter then thought: Pietro wasn’t dead. He was locked up, wasn’t he?

Stephen grumbled something. ‘They need to realise how much they have hurt us,’ he said softly; he seemed to have agreed to Rogers’ plan. ‘Find the right words, and they will listen.’

Wanda made a sound of despair – a mix between a hum and a sniff. ‘My brother warned me when he was working with that family,’ she said, her words warping in despair. ‘He warned me of their cruel ways and that I should stay away from it all. I stayed away, and I thought I should give my brother time to relax, to take a break, so I applied to work for that same family…’ Wanda paused. ‘He warned me. And look where he’s gotten himself. Don’t make me do the same thing again, Steve.’

Pietro hadn’t been overcome with loss and betrayal; rather, he had been acting in terror, of his sister walking into a world where she would only face torment. The pieces fit, and it somewhat sickened Peter; how superhumans and people alike put others in harm’s way to help their own.

‘I wouldn’t put you in that position,’ Rogers promised. ‘Not after…not after what happened today.’

The name _Bucky_ lingered in the air, unspoken.

‘Were you close?’ asked Stephen.

‘As in friends or the proximity of us freezing together in the ice back in the ‘40s?’ Rogers’ attempt at humour was bland, and Rogers relented. ‘We were good allies, even better friends after the war. And then…’

Rogers trailed off and sighed. ‘Is this what we dreamed of?’ he whispered, so quietly and forlornly that Peter had to press his head closer. ‘Is this how we dreamed things would become?’

‘They can’t stop what we’ve started,’ Wanda said after a moment. ‘Ever since you and Bucky found us, you’ve given us hope.’ Her breath shuddered. ‘You’ve given me hope.’

‘We’ve dug ourselves too deep into this war,’ Stephen insisted. ‘We cannot lose; our people will die and our efforts will all be for nothing.’

A dark silence permeated the office. ‘Whatever happens tomorrow,’ Wanda said softly, ‘it was an honour fighting alongside you.’

‘It won’t come to that, kid,’ Rogers said, almost affectionately.

‘Aye,’ agreed Stephen. A pair of feet tapped sharply against the floor – light and quick. ‘If you don’t mind, it’s best if I leave now and replenish my strength; I’ve harnessed enough energy in the area to hold defensive shields but it won’t do good if I am starved…’

‘Yes, thank you, Stephen, Wanda,’ Rogers said, and footsteps receded from the office. Peter held his breath when he heard Stephen shuffled down the steps, his shadow falling across Peter’s face. From his vantage point, Peter could see a man clad in a dark blue tunic and leather-bound boots. Peter didn’t need to see his face to know Stephen was one of the men present during the Daily Bugle fiasco because he recognised the orange gloves the man wore and the signature streaks of grey hair at his temples.

As Stephen disappeared to “replenish his strength”, Peter listened to Wanda and Rogers shuffle awkwardly on their feet. Then the sounds of loud footsteps and a muffled sound of surprise from Rogers; Peter could only guess they were hugging, in the way where someone would hug to reassure themselves for the events to come.

After a moment, Wanda’s voice said, ‘I’ll be with the others, now. Take care, Steve; please come back to us.’ Rogers was silent as Wanda exited the room; Peter saw the brown-haired girl from the Daily Bugle’s security footage, outfitted in a knee-length red dress and a maroon jacket, her black boots pulled up to her shins.

Peter waited for a moment as Wanda disappeared down the same path Stephen had taken. Rogers remained inside the office, unmoving.

His sixth sense itched and pulsed in time with Peter’s heartbeat. The gun seemed to grow colder against his leg, and the first flurries of snow began to trickle down slowly outside. Peter turned his body to the stairs and he scurried towards it. He reached for the railings and pulled himself upward with barely a sound.

The door to the office remained open. An opportunity, an ending.

Peter slipped the gun out of his jeans, hearing the safety click off.

He had never shot to kill before, and he never would. He’d aim to hurt, to subdue, nothing more; it was exactly what he had said to Ross earlier that day. If hurting Steve Rogers, if hurting The Captain, was the only way to stall whatever the rogues had planned for tomorrow, then that was what Peter would do.

He took a step. Then another. He climbed up the stairs, silently, feeling strength in every step, feeling his muscles coil tightly as adrenaline pumped into his veins. He felt like a hunter, cunning and lethal, a weapon in his grip with the only goal of capturing the beast and keeping him pinned beneath him to let the people he protected run free again.

His sixth sense growled.

‘I’ve been ordered to take you alive,’ Peter called, his arm shooting upward to point his gun to Rogers.

(He hadn’t been ordered by anyone; but damn if that line didn’t sound badass).

Rogers had his back turned to Peter, his hands braced against a cluttered table opposite to the door. Rogers made no movement to acknowledge Peter’s presence, but the muscles underneath his dark jacket were tense.

As Rogers turned around, Peter advanced, his gun still aimed at Rogers’ chest. ‘I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice,’ Peter warned.

Rogers’ eyes widened at the sight of Peter wielding a gun. His first words were soft and low, almost patronising. ‘What are you doing?’ Rogers asked. Peter failed to ignore The Captain moving slowly towards him as well. ‘Put the gun down, son, let’s just talk…’

It dawned on Peter that this was the almost exact scenario he had found himself three months ago – Rogers was Peter, negotiating, and Peter was Pietro, holding the life of another in his hands with a gun to make his point.

‘You can’t betray your own people,’ Rogers continued.

Peter frowned. ‘You’re coming with me!’ he ordered loudly. His jacket crinkled and made crackling sounds as he jostled the gun in his hands pointedly.

‘You’re nothing to them,’ Rogers insisted; Peter registered _them_ as the humans. ‘You’re just a tool they use for their dirty work. But you are more than that. We are _all_ more than that.’ Rogers took another step forward.

Peter held his ground as The Captain continued. ‘Our cause is righteous,’ said Rogers. ‘We are more than what they say. We only fight for our freedom.’

‘You’re endangering the lives of others,’ Peter ground out. ‘You’re endangering children, the innocent, the vulnerable.’

‘And you aren’t a child?’ asked Rogers. ‘You involved yourself in this…the humans involved you in this, have they not?’ Rogers tilted his head minutely. ‘You’re Peter Parker, aren’t you?’

Peter stiffened at the sound of his name. His silent question was answered when Rogers spoke again. ‘We have acquaintances in the city,’ Rogers told him. ‘When we heard a superhuman out there was hunting down our own, it’s hard to ignore that. It’s hard to know someone as conflicted as you is trying to prevent us from trying to achieve freedom through peace…’ Rogers gestured to Peter ‘…just as you are.’

The weight of his words were like chains on Peter’s body – heavy, cold and constricting, cutting off his air and dragging him under into an ocean. The seeds of doubt in his mind writhed in the dirt of his soul, waiting for the right words to sprout and grow. Peter could feel his legs lock up and stiffen, as if he had lost all connection with them.

‘Have you ever wondered who you are in this world?’ Rogers asked. ‘A common superhuman, a slave, doing the jobs of others without the respect and freedom you deserve? Or a living person, who deserves the rights everyone else has?’

Rogers took a step forward. Then another.

‘You’re just like us, Peter,’ said Rogers softly. ‘You desire freedom and peace just as we do; violence isn’t how we do things. You know that. Don’t try to burn down our only chance of our dream.’

Peter found himself taking a step back.

There was a swirl of emotions deep in Peter’s gut. The gun in his hands shook. His sixth sense softened at the proximity of Rogers; this man, he was no threat. He never was to begin with. He wasn’t an ugly truth bringing forth a wave of destruction; he wasn’t killing innocent people, he was pushing the crueller ones away. He was shedding light to a dream lost in a sea of ignorance.

Steve Rogers was the poet who sings a message of a hope a people wished to achieve, and The Captain was the vessel taking them there.

Peter’s hands slackened. The gun fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

And Peter crushed it underfoot.

_Found yourself believing in something too, hmm? A new faith? Are you rogue?_

He stamped onto the metal, flattening it, bending it, reducing it to a memory of a nightmare whose fingers still dragged across the back of Peter’s head.

_I am rogue._

It was silent, and a quiet kind of relief filled Rogers’ blue eyes. Peter stared at the mess of metal shards and dust on the ground beneath him, and he would have sobbed with relief too if he hadn’t heard it.

The sounds of helicopters whirring.

_No doubt they would check the cameras. No doubt they would look through the history of employees and officers signing in and out. No doubt they would find out it was Peter._

‘They’re here,’ whispered Peter in horror.

‘What?’ Rogers asked, picking up on Peter’s abrupt change of attitude. How could he not? Peter was literally cowering in on himself, his sixth sense scraping sharp needles against the inside of his skull. The base of his head prickled from something cold.

‘They’ve found it,’ Peter told him hurriedly. ‘I used the only evidence I had to find out where you were, and they’ve found it. They’ve found us!’

As if on cue, the rumbling of engines and aircraft exploded to life outside The Compound. The glaring white of searchlights burned in the air, lighting up the office for a brief moment before disappearing.

‘Shit,’ Rogers murmured. He sprang into a run, pushing past Peter, out of the office and down the stairs. Peter could hear the echoing _CLANG_ as Rogers threw the door open to warn the group of superhumans inside. The sound jolted Peter back to himself, and he rushed out the office and down the stairs. His feet hit cold metal and the wind was harsher and colder now that the helicopters stirred up the air. He glanced up at the wordings on a nearby aircraft, its spotlight landing momentarily on him: _FBI_.

God damn it, Davis.

He raced for the closing door, slamming it open again to find the world inside thrown into chaos. People were scurrying around, packing up and snagging supplies while others helped the wounded to their feet. A few superhumans rushed outside, only to be immediately shot down by incoming FBI agents, their guns held high.

Peter’s heart thudded at the sudden turn of events. There was no point in denying that this was his fault.

He heard a pair of screams, and Peter was gone. He completely ignored the stairs leading down from the platform he was on, and instead leapt over the railing, landing on a pair of soldiers and knocking their guns out of their grip. His web shooters clicked and he splattered them with his webbing, pinning them to the ground.

Peter turned to face the people who screamed, his heart leaping to his throat when he realised it was Billy and Tommy, huddling close to one another and crying. Billy’s hands were wreathed in an almost ethereal smoke, and Peter realised the small boy hadn’t mastered his powers yet.

‘Are you okay?’ Peter asked them quickly. As they nodded, sobbing, he wrapped an arm around them and steered them away from the chaos inside, webbing up any soldiers who came their way.

Peter soon realised that there were a lot more sections in the warehouse than he initially thought. Corridors and rooms twisted over themselves and the superhumans bolted between them all, waving their hands, creating lights and throwing items to deter the soldiers hunting them.

He spotted Rogers, and Peter directed Billy and Tommy towards them as he ran. ‘Rogers!’ Peter called above the cacophony of voices and chaos.

Rogers turned and, upon seeing the younger two boys, pointed them to a woman who was waving her hands at them. Once Billy and Tommy had run off to her, Wanda appeared beside them, a look of horror painting her face; her hair flickered, red flames twisting beneath the strands.

‘The humans are coming in from all sides!’ she cried. ‘They’ll be slaughtered in minutes!’

‘The FBI move in groups,’ Peter told her. ‘You’ll have to distract them and navigate between them!’

Wanda cast a confused look at him. ‘How do you know—?’

‘Because he worked for them,’ a low voice hissed.

Peter’s sixth sense barely had time to ring as he turned around and was promptly thrown into a wall. The metal crumpled from the force, and someone shoved their arm against his throat. Air suddenly cut off, Peter blinked at the person who attacked him.

Matthew Murdock growled at him, fury written in every crease of his face. His eyes were empty, but the heat from his words burned. ‘I knew it,’ he spat at Peter. ‘I heard your heartbeat from the other side of the room – foolish of me to let you slip past—’

‘Matt!’ Rogers yelled. ‘Leave him! He’s on our side!’

‘He was the one hunting us down!’ Murdock yelled back, pushing harder against Peter’s throat. ‘He brought the entire FBI to our doorstep!’ He turned his head towards Wanda, murmuring, ‘He’s the one who threw your brother to Hell.’

Wanda’s face morphed then. It was an ugly expression, filled with red anger and boiling disgust and hatred so blinding that Peter reflexively squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t find it in himself to hold his own against her withering gaze.

‘ _He_ was the one?’ Wanda whispered darkly; her voice carried over the sounds of everything else, and suddenly Peter realised he may not have thought things through.

Then again, he never really expected to drop his weapons to side with the enemies of the government.

‘He’ll face the consequences once we leave!’ growled Rogers. His baritone voice had grown deeper, rumbling through the air with authority. ‘Murdock, _leave him_.’

Murdock snarled at Peter one last time before stepping back, his hand leaving Peter’s throat. Peter heaved in a heavy breath and tried to not look greedy as he gulped in air, casting a grateful but guilty look at Rogers; the man merely blinked at him before turning to Wanda. ‘Where’s Stephen?’

‘I don’t know, he was meditating when I last saw him,’ Wanda told, side eyeing Peter, her eyes tinged red. ‘He wasn’t at full strength; it was probably why the humans were able to get in so easily – his shield couldn’t hold up for long.’

Rogers sighed. ‘We’ll have to blow up The Compound.’

Peter gave Rogers an incredulous look, as did Wanda and Murdock. ‘If the warehouse goes down, the soldiers will evacuate and our people can escape into the river!’ reasoned Rogers, already turning himself around to head for wherever he and the rogues had stashed their explosives.

‘You’ll ever make it!’ Wanda hissed at him. ‘The explosives are all the way down in the underground floors, and there are soldiers everywhere!’

‘She’s right,’ Peter rasped after a moment. When everyone’s eyes turned to him, he elaborated, ‘They know Rogers’ face; they know how important you are to the superhumans, and they’ll do anything to get to you.’

Rogers waved a hand, dismissing their protests. ‘Go and join the others,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll come back to you.’

‘Steve—’ Murdock began.

‘I won’t be long,’ insisted Rogers. With that, he turned and ran, barrelling through the gaps between fleeing superhuman groups.

Peter watched him until he vanished from sight when he felt something cold pressed against his back; a small dagger, gripped tightly in Murdock’s hand. ‘Any funny business, kid, and I’ll gut you and leave you for the authorities,’ he threatened.

Peter gulped. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he admitted. A rough shove from Murdock, and Peter moved forward, his feet clanging against the metal floors, Murdock and Wanda running alongside him. The few words shared between the latter two suggested that they were to find Stephen first, who could be anywhere in any kind of state within the walls of The Compound.

Fingers already curled around the lever of his web shooters, Peter scanned the area and webbed up soldiers as they came along and snagged their guns and firearms and crushed them underfoot. With every dull _click_ and sharp _thwip_ of his wrist-mounted weapons, Peter knew he was running out of web fluid. He hadn’t thought to bring extras; foolish on his part, he admitted it. He’d have to make do with his fists if it came to it.

As they ran, they spread the word of heading to river when Rogers’ plan of blowing up the warehouse came to pass. Superhumans were frantic but nodded grimly, quickly moving to follow the orders their friends had come to share.

Minutes passed like hours. Peter wasn’t sure how long they had been navigating the twisting corridors of The Compound when he heard a sharp cry: one that sounded all too much like Stephen.

Murdock must have heard it too, because he broke away from the tightly-knit group he, Peter and Wanda had formed and yelled into the depths of the corridor, ‘Stephen!’

Wanda pursued him, and Peter had no choice but to follow when Murdock began kicking the doors open, growling at each empty room that lay beyond the doors. Wanda began doing the same, waving her hands and sending red mist slamming against the doors. Then gasped when she saw the scene behind one of them. Peter’s sixth sense bubbled.

A trio of soldiers, their guns aimed at a twitching figure on the ground. Stephen’s bloody face lolled slowly towards their direction, his iridescent eyes being the only thing that Peter could focus on.

The soldiers yelled, pointing their firearms at Murdock, Wanda and Peter. One of them shoved a foot against Stephen’s bleeding abdomen, and apparently it was the wrong thing to do.

The scuffle in that small space ended quickly, with the soldiers ending up plastered to the wall in webbing or lying in a tangle of limbs on the floor, all unconscious and bleeding. Peter panted as he watched Wanda move towards Stephen, her hands gentle as she pried the large body off the ground.

‘Ah,’ hissed Stephen, wincing. He screwed his eyes shut in pain. ‘Took you long enough.’

‘We had to take a detour,’ Murdock replied drily. He tilted his body pointedly towards Peter, and he turned away. Instead, he focused on the gash in Stephen’s stomach; probably a bullet wound, guessing from how blood bubbled from a singular point, staining his blue garb a dark, sickly purple.

As Wanda and Murdock both shifted his weight onto his feet, Stephen asked in a wavering voice, ‘What do we do?’

‘We run for the river,’ Wanda supplied him.

‘That was Steve’s plan?’

‘He was going to blow up The Compound, so yes, it was.’

Stephen blinked sluggishly. ‘Mmm,’ he said. Then he passed out.

Wanda sighed, then glared at Peter. ‘Make sure no soldiers prevent us from leaving,’ she told him.

Peter nodded, backing out of the room to allow more space for Wanda and Murdock to shuffle through with Stephen balanced between them. As they hurriedly moved, Peter noticed that most of the hallways were empty now; the rooms were drenched with blood and smouldering embers and filled with numerous bodies of mutilated soldiers. Peter turned his eyes away from the carnage, and proceeded to walk ahead of Wanda, Murdock and an unconscious Stephen, Murdock being the one who barked out directions to the nearest exit closest to the river.

The sound of echoing footsteps, and the three of them of them turned to see a panting Rogers running up to them. His movements were rushed, tensed.

‘Steve!’ cried Wanda, relief dripping from her voice in waves.

Rogers’ smile was light as his eyes flitted over to Stephen and the blood gushing from his bullet wound. Without a word, he motioned for Wanda and Murdock to hand Stephen over to him, which they gladly obliged. Once Stephen was held securely in Rogers’ arms, the latter said, ‘The bomb’s going to explode any second. We need to get out of here!’

Almost on cue, Peter felt a rumbling from beneath the ground. It was low and hot, as if the very earth was boiling beneath him.

Murdock grunted and he turned to run, Rogers and Peter following him while Wanda took the rear. They jogged through a narrow hallway, their footsteps echoing loudly in their ears—

Wanda screamed, her voice loud and shrill. Peter turned just in time to see her tumble to the ground, a stream of blood dribbling from her shoulder. Her face was contorted into pain as she turned to face something behind her, Peter following her gaze.

Two soldiers were firing, the bullets from their guns embedding in the walls just inches from where they stood. A couple landed near Wanda, where she managed to deflect them with waning wisps of red.

Peter’s arm shot out, fingers curling over his web shooter. He pressed downward—

_Fwit._

Eyes widening, Peter looked down at his web shooter. Only a small spray of droplets flew out. The cartridge was empty.

Sensing his distress, Rogers turned to Murdock and slipped Stephen into his arms. Rogers then dug his hands into a nearby control panel, yanking the cover off in a swift downward pull. Sparks erupted, but Rogers payed no attention; he ran forward and swung his arm forward, the panel in his hands flinging outward like some giant rectangular frisbee.

It was effective; it slammed into one of the soldier’s heads, causing him to buckle into the other soldier and they collapsed to the ground, groaning.

Rogers was quick, scrambling forward to help Wanda to her feet, but not fast enough. One of the soldiers had recovered quickly, yelling into his radio, ‘Contact! Contact! Hostiles engaged!’

If years of training to work with the police force taught him anything, it was that Peter knew it translated to, _We have back up and we’re not holding back._

A few more soldiers appeared from nearby rooms, guns cocked and ready. Targeting lasers hovered over Rogers and Wanda as they scrambled along the uneven floors.

With his sixth sense screaming, Peter pushed up from the ground, his adhesiveness helping him run along the walls. This captured the soldiers’ attentions because the lasers immediately snapped to him, and their bullets fired wildly.

Peter rolled to the ground, snagging the piece of metal Rogers had thrown in his hand and holding it up like a shield; bullets slammed into it with a consecutive _BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Peering around him, Peter found a gun lying beside his feet. He picked it up, noting its barrel was already loaded, and he quickly twisted his body to fire at the soldiers.

He was no killer, so no man ended up dead. He fired at shoulders and at hands, places where pain would be great but death was far off. Two soldiers crumpled, and a third sidestepped and unleashed a volley of bullets. Peter managed to dodge most of them, but he ignored the burst of pain as two lodged themselves in his shoulder.

 _That’s fine_ , he told himself as he grunted through the pain and shoved the soldier into the wall. _The more bullets in me means the less bullets in the others._

Adrenaline was on his side, thankfully, as Peter yanked another soldier’s gun from his hands and punched him with the firearm. He buckled under the force, unconscious. Peter held up his gun in his unwounded hand, hot blood trailing down his wounded arm, when he heard the sounds of other soldiers barrelling their way, shouting orders to one another.

He turned to Rogers and the others and yelled, ‘Go! More are coming!’

Rogers nodded, and with an arm around Wanda, he told Murdock to move. All of them ran down the remainder of the hallway, and Peter could feel the beginnings of a cold breeze as they rushed out of the doorway at the end of the corridor.

Helicopters swarmed the air and patrol vehicles littered the area, more or less camouflaged by the dark environment around them. Only a few soldiers remained outside, and Peter took to firing at their weapons, disabling them with minimal harm to the people behind them.

‘Go, go, go!’ yelled Rogers. He ran faster, and Peter saw why: the river gleamed a few metres ahead of them, its waters gushing quickly and loudly. Murdock splashed into the river, submerging both himself and Stephen, clamping a hand around the latter’s mouth and nose. Rogers, Wanda and Peter followed just as The Compound exploded.

The building unleashed a wave of heat and light, its window shattering and concrete crumbling as the forces beneath the ground expanded outward. The last thing Peter saw of the warehouse was the flames roaring up from the ground, throwing up dirt and rocks and sending soldiers plummeting into gaping holes in the ground.

Then Peter tumbled into the river. The biting cold was the first thing Peter registered, then the darkness, then the strong pull of the river’s forces. He was swept off his feet, kicking up swirls of dust as he tried to right himself. His shoulder throbbed with pain he hadn’t felt in a long time. His stinging eyes tried to focus on something, _anything_ , but the water sinking down his throat took up most of his attention.

As he tried to calm himself, a flash of red caught his eye: Wanda’s hand, glowing softly in the darkness of the raging waters.

Immediately, Peter felt cool air compress against his mouth, and he gasped, coughing and spluttering. A glowing bubble of red had formed around his head, draining water away and allowing air to filter inside.

After a few minutes of trying to control his breathing, Peter relaxed against the rush of the river, instead focusing on the dull throb of Wanda’s glowing hand in the dark, swirling waters. The river snaked and bent, and wherever they ended up at, Peter was sure they would be far away from where they had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shield-throwing Jesus has successfully converted Peter and now he has joined the cult


	14. ⌜Good Luck, Kid⌟

_**⌞Chapter 14⌝ ≎ ⌜Good Luck, Kid⌟** _

The superhumans washed up to shore six miles from the burning wreckages of The Compound. They ended up in an abandoned region of upstate New York, where people had left behind memories and their belongings. The streets were grubby and quiet, as if someone had threatened to blow up the place with a bomb and waited for everyone to evacuate.

Peter emerged from the water feeling like shit. His joints felt like rusty old door hinges, his head throbbed from the loss of his beanie and his soaking-wet hair, and his shoulder kept squirting blood from the bullet wounds, staining his jacket a dark maroon. Teeth chattering, Peter watched as the rogues begin walking in a seemingly aimless direction, pulling themselves onto the empty streets. The sky was still dark and the air still frigid, but that didn't deter any one of them.

After a while of wandering Peter saw Rogers at the front of the superhuman group; he was waving towards a large building, gesturing for everyone to hurry inside.

The building reminded Peter of the St. Patrick's Cathedral back in the city, all high turrets and curled designs and stained-glass windows and large stone archways. The wooden doors at the front of this church were old and already blown open by the wind, and Rogers held them open to allow the sopping-wet rogues to move quickly inside.

Peter was shoved inside with the onslaught of superhumans, and the first thing he noticed, aside from the obvious darkness, was the surprisingly warm air; mouldy and stale, but warm, nonetheless. The cathedral was large, possibly as large as the most spacious of rooms in The Compound, so as everyone seated themselves and huddled close to one another on the dusty pews, there was still plenty of leftover space in the nave. Peter took to lingering in the shadows at the sides near the aisles, as did a few others.

He watched as the superhumans busied themselves to find any candles and clothes that were stored, regardless if they were holy or not. Murdock was the one to lead the scavenging, as he seemed the most educated in the ways of the churches.

One by one, candles flickered to life, golden twinkles accompanying the soft blue glows of the superhuman's armlets. A few rogues bumbled about between the pews, holding out their hands to help heal the wounded. The woman Peter had seen earlier, the one with the yellow hood, sidled up to Peter; she was a good five inches taller than him now that she was standing.

'Are you wounded?' she asked, voice soft; her hood was drawn over her head, covering her eyes.

Peter was about to reply with a curt _No_ , but remembered the pair of bullets lodged in his shoulder. He nodded and pointed to his shoulder, and the woman bent down to trace a finger around the edges of the holes in his jacket.

'Do you want me to lessen the pain when I remove them?' asked the woman, having figured out where the bullets were.

'No,' Peter replied, looking at his feet. 'Just— it'd be nice if you got them out, thanks.'

The woman nodded slowly, then she tapped her finger lightly over each bullet wound; a golden trail was left behind, like spider silk hooked to something beneath Peter's skin. The woman pressed her fingers together and pulled her hand back.

A pain so similar to the one he'd experienced just days ago erupted in Peter's arm. He gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath, trying to force his mind away from the day he wound up at the Stark Industries tower with Doctor Cho pulling a bullet from his head. He didn't have anaesthesia here; might as well just ground his teeth and be over it.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut just as the woman pulled for a final time, and he felt the sudden pressure in his shoulder deflate as the bullets popped put from under his flesh. Blood began gushing in torrents, but Peter ignored it in favour of watching the woman hold up the bullets by her golden magic string, as if they were fish dangling from a hook and fishing line.

The woman smiled at Peter, then glanced at his shoulder. 'Can you heal?' she questioned.

'Yes. Yes, I can,' answered Peter.

'We might need a tourniquet, seeing as one of the bullets pierced your axillary—'

'I have bandages,' Peter offered, gesturing to his right bicep. 'I, um, used them...to hide my armlet...'

'Oh, that's not a problem,' the woman said kindly, waiting for Peter as he peeled off his jacket and pulled his shirt down enough to unwound the bandages wrapped around his armlet. He handed the bundle of gauze bandages to the woman, who told him to remove his shirt entirely so she could wrap the bandages around his shoulder.

A few terse seconds passed as the woman began to apply the bandages. She later noted, 'I see you don't seem quite as lost.' She glanced at Peter, iridescent eyes gleaming. 'That is, in itself, good news.'

'Yeah,' Peter said hesitantly. 'I've had...a real eye-opening experience.'

The woman questioned no more and finished wrapping the bandages around Peter's shoulder. Blood had already soaked through the first layer, but Peter could already feel the inevitable itch deep in his flesh as muscle and tissue began to stitch themselves shut. He thanked the woman as he slipped his shirt and jacket on again; the woman only bowed her head and shuffled down the line of pews, looking for her next patient.

Peter leaned against the wall as he tried to wrap his arms around himself without jostling his shoulder too much, his eyes wandering. Everything seemed a little colder now, but maybe that was just him; maybe his wounds had been infected and his body was trying to ward off the viruses and bacteria. Maybe it was all normal.

Or maybe he was just freezing in his own hell.

Peter wasn't sure when his eyes drifted shut, but his sixth sense hummed to make them flutter open. A soft rhythmic puff of warm air caressed his face lightly, and Peter opened his eyes to see who stood in front of him.

Rogers towered above him, his shadow long and dark, a hulking figure over a smaller one. The smell of damp clothing stung Peter's nose, but he paid no mind to it; he probably smelled much worse, and to point that out would mean he would have to break that young yet unstable relationship he had just forged.

The man didn't move, nor did he open his mouth to speak. The two just stood there in the shadows, both lost in a sea of thought. Peter figured he should be the one to speak first.

'It's my fault,' Peter said softly, gazing down at his feet, 'the humans managed to locate The Compound.' He wrapped his arms a little tight around himself. 'I was stupid. I should have known they were just using me to get to you.'

Peter took in a shaky breath, then looked at Rogers in the eye. 'I'm sorry, Rogers,' he apologised.

And he meant it. From the bottom of his heart, to the pit of his gut, Peter apologised _and he meant it_. It was like a scab being torn off from a wound, over and over; all the guilt and the regrets that accumulated over the past week sat in a glass beaker, brimming the edges and threatening to spill over. To Peter, apologising meant he was not okay with the things he'd done.

'I can understand if you don't want to trust me,' Peter continued. 'I'll accept whatever you choose to do with me, Rogers.'

All this while, Rogers had not said a word; he just stood there, impassively, blue eyes dark and cold. His thin lips were pursed, his skin was pale, and his wet blonde hair was swept messily over his head.

Peter figured Rogers was about to shove him to the dirt when the man said, 'Steve.'

Blinking, Peter looked up. 'What?' he asked, voice soft.

'It's Steve,' Rogers said. 'You don't see anyone around here call me by my last name.' He gestured to the amassed group of superhumans, all in different locations but so undeniably attached to one another. 'We're family here; we all have a common goal, and that makes us equals. No one here wishes to have a higher power than others.'

'But you're The Captain,' Peter protested.

'The Captain is a name,' the man replied. 'The Captain is a symbol for what America once stood for: unity. I'm using it to bring back the nation's unity.' He raised a heavy hand and placed it reassuringly on Peter's unwounded shoulder. ' _We_ are using it to bring back unity.'

Peter nodded, and just before Rogers pulled away, he said, 'I have a...friend, who is on our side.' When Rogers – _Steve_ – looked at him for further information, Peter continued, 'He said...back in the city – the Stark Industries tower, specifically – he said there was _back up_ waiting if I ever needed it.'

Peter bit his lip; he hadn't considered exactly what _kind_ of back up Mr. Stark had hinted, but judging from what he said, it had to be people: _Might be a rough start at first, just saying, not everyone gets along so easily down there_.

After all, a place with the name _The Raft_ didn't exactly seem like a safe place for machinery.

Steve furrowed his eyes. 'How do you know this friend of yours is actually helping us?'

'He's been telling me I've been in the wrong since the beginning,' Peter admitted. 'He told me about the back up just before we...parted ways.' Peter cleared his throat, then said in a stronger tone, 'If I can get to them, we can probably shift the powers a little; it might not be a lot, but it could work.'

Now it was Steve's turn to be surprised. 'You want to infiltrate Stark Tower?' he asked. 'Peter, that's _suicide_.'

'They trust me,' Peter said. 'They trust me. They don't know I've gone rogue; they probably think I'm still packing and handing in research. They'll let me in.'

And of course they would – he was Stark Industries' prized possession; if Tony Stark was the face of the company, Peter was their link to the outside world. They would _have_ to let him in. They might even thank him for "finding" the rogues, even.

'I'll have a higher chance of infiltrating the Tower; they won't suspect much of me compared to any one of you,' Peter insisted.

'If you go there, they will kill you,' Steve said stiffly. Concern flashed in the man's eyes, hardened like stone. It took Peter a moment that this was what Steve must have faced on a daily basis: on the brink of a war, waving farewell to fellow soldiers who had grown close like family. They all shared promises and said goodbyes...some for the last time.

But Peter never had a _last time_. He just kept coming back.

'That is a high probability,' Peter agreed, staring hardly into Steve's eyes. He raised his chin, trying to look just as confident as he felt. 'But, statistically, it's better than not trying; there's always going to be something different than what we expect.'

There was turmoil writhing in Steve's gaze. Peter could tell that Steve was fighting his own morals, his own beliefs; a child shouldn't be sent to war – they should be tucked away, safe, while the adults fought for a world where their children could grow up in. Peter couldn't possibly be the one to tip the balance of the scales, could he?

Peter could. And Peter will.

Steve must have come to a conclusion because his hand was back on Peter's shoulder. He squeezed it strongly, reassuringly, and said softly, 'Be careful.'

It was almost a plea—

Peter nodded.

—but he answered it with vigour.

* * *

'Humans have decided to eradicate us,' Steve said. It was the first words he spoke to the superhumans since The Compound's destruction. When he had walked up to the transept of the church, devoid of candle holders and holy items, the rogues fell silent as they turned to him.

Just weeks ago, it had been him and Bucky turning to them for help.

'Our people,' Steve continued, 'are being shipped to Stark Industries right now, being killed. The time has come to make a choice, one that very well may determine the future of our people.'

Everyone bristled at the raw emotion that made itself known in Steve's voice. It was involuntary, but Steve couldn't feel any bit of shame from it. A lot of good people were being shunned, locked up and killed just because of who they are – that wasn't what a country as diverse as the United States stood for. That was not why Steve had found himself fighting in the 1940s.

He was fighting for freedom. For the nation, for the people, for the innocent.

'I know,' Steve said, gazing into each and every single pair of eyes that latched on his, trying to instil a sense of purpose and determination into them. 'I know you're all angry. And I know you want to fight back...show how much the humans have hurt us by bottling us and oppressing us. But I assure violence is not the answer here.'

He watched the armlets twinkle, watched the eyes flicker back and forth, watched as their breaths hitched. Steve knew what they were thinking. Why walk peacefully when all the world did was torture? Why give when others only took? Where was the justice in that?

'We are going to tell them peacefully that we want justice,' Steve said strongly, answering their questions. 'If there's any humanity in them, they will listen. And if not, then others will take our place and continue this fight.'

Steve's hands curled into fists by his side. He cocked his head up high, looking as strong as the humans made him to be. He tried to look confident for his people, to show them that hope, while often hiding, was never truly gone.

His eyes flickered over the gathered crowd of superhumans before him. All so different, yet all the same. Near the front Steve could see Wanda tending to a drowsy but conscious Stephen; Murdock shifting his weight between his legs as he sidled up to Danny Rand; could see the boys Billy and Tommy holding each other's hands in reassurance, to comfort one another as if they were brothers.

Steve could see Peter standing at the very back of the group, shrouded in shadows as he stood by the door to the church. He looked sick and tired, weariness and guilt pressing down on him. Steve had seen that look before; he saw it often on Bucky when they had first woken up in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. Sometimes he saw it in himself whenever he passed a mirror or a window.

It sickened Steve to see someone so young involved in such a dirty situation.

But it also moved him; it moved him to see someone so young so willing to make a difference.

He was glad to see not all his efforts were for nothing.

Casting another determined look at the crowd in front of him, Steve took a deep breath and spoke. His voice was loud, strong, deep as he asked, 'Are you ready to follow me?'

The response was instantaneous.

Loud cheers erupted, and the superhumans roared with fiery vigour. They cheered for a dream, for a world where their kind wouldn't have to be shunned and oppressed. They cheered for freedom.

'The Captain!' someone yelled, raising their fist in the air.

'The Captain!' another called.

'THE CAPTAIN! THE CAPTAIN! THE CAPTAIN!'

The chants grew loud to the point it was almost deafening, but Steve didn't mind. Support could come in many different forms – chanting just so happened to be one of them.

He cast his gaze to the doors of the church and nodded.

And Peter bowed his head before slipping outside.

_Good luck, kid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys there are literally only three chapters left


	15. ⌜The Reflection Bites Back⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain character: *appears*  
> Me: so anyway I started blasting

**_⌞Chapter 15⌝ ≎ ⌜The Reflection Bites Back⌟_ **

Peter had snuck back into his apartment as quickly as he could.

The entire section of Upper East Side had been closed off to allow authorities to transfer superhumans back to Stark Tower, and Peter had just barely managed to sneak by in his bloodied clothes unnoticed after his dirty trek through the city.

Scrambling in the shadows, Peter hauled himself up the side of the building where his apartment nestled inside. Despite knowing he might be one of the last superhumans to be rounded up, he couldn't take chances in being spotted.

After checking to see if his apartment was empty, Peter yanked the window by the small kitchen open and tumbled inside. He bumped into the tap by the sink, hearing it groan from under the force of his quick entry; oh well, if it breaks, the new tenants could pay for it.

Darting around through his apartment and peeking into the rooms, Peter concluded that no one had officially come for him yet; no one had rearranged the sparse items or taken anything. That was good. That meant he could enter Stark Industries under his own free will.

Well, who's to say he would be denied access, anyway?

Trying to prevent the spiralling thoughts of doubt, Peter burst into his room and ripped off his gunk-smelling bloodied clothes. He unwound the bandages from his shoulder, wincing when the blood refused to unstick from the bandages but somewhat relieved to see the scabs were still intact against his skin. Peter rushed to slip on his uniform that he had ungraciously dumped onto his bed earlier in the evening when he first went to find the superhumans.

His armlet glistened brightly as he smoothed down any folds and creases in the cloth. Peter made his way to the bathroom and grabbed a towel to dry off his hair; surely it smelled, but he couldn't exactly get a decent shower tonight, could he?

He wiped his face dry and tried to rub away any streaks of dirt and blood. Aside from looking tired and dishevelled, the reflection in the mirror resembled the Peter Parker from early in the week who only cared about solving cases and putting away criminals.

That week and its events had only grown in complexity.

Peter's sixth sense hissed and scratched at something at the base of his head, prompting him to move. Checking his appearance once more and seeing if there was anything that could potentially out him one last time, Peter strode out of the bathroom and across his apartment to his front door.

As he slipped on his shoes, Peter dimly remembered his web shooters. They were empty, and even if he did figure out how to compress his own vials of web fluid into thin cartridges like the ones Mr. Stark made, there wouldn't be enough time. He'd have to go literally empty handed.

Sighing, Peter unclasped his web shooters from his wrists and set them on the small table by the door, then he looked back at the small space he had found himself home in. The windows overlooking various sections of Queens, the cluttered kitchen and its rusty handles, the web fluid still clinging to the corners of the ceilings like actual spider silk; if things went well tonight, he hoped he could return to it.

He could return home. He could return to his job, he could return to Ned and Michelle, to Fury, even. He could return to Mr. Stark; have a normal life again – if by "normal" meant by coexisting with a people who seemed to hate his kind.

Peter clenched a hand around the doorknob and yanked the door open. He slipped outside and then shut the door with a soft click.

* * *

He found himself at the foot of the Stark Tower half an hour later. The lights in majority of the floors were blacked out, except for a few levels near the top. If Peter was correct, and he was, most of the people were active in the floors _beneath_ the building; in the labs, most specifically, where most of the equipment used for strapping down and killing superhumans were located.

Mr. Stark had made it clear there was a place underneath all that; the Raft had to be some kind of secret known only to him if he was boldly stating it Peter. He knew there were no stairs to the lower levels, just the elevator. Maybe he can override any basic protocols to get to the lowest of all the floors.

There was stiff sort of purpose lingering in Peter's steps as he moved. He could feel it in the way he held himself; too tight, back too straight and his arms swinging too wide. It might not be noticeable to anyone, but he could see he was trying to hold his act together; if anyone saw through that mask, it was a mission failure.

Peter crossed the pavement to the doors of the Tower. He pulled the door open—

—only to slam into a stiff body.

Peter blinked and took a minute step back as he looked up at the figure clothed in a pitch black suit. It was the Head of Security – Happy Hogan, to be exact – and he was hulking over Peter with a look of disdain on his grumpy features.

Frowning, Peter wondered why Hogan was here; security personnel were pretty rare in every Stark Industries facility because of the effectiveness of mechanised security protocols. Maybe Hogan being here was simply for the occasion, maybe Stark Industries needed an extra hand or two to help with subduing superhumans.

'Parker?' grunted Hogan, sounding more exasperated than surprised.

'Hello, Mr. Hogan,' Peter said quickly. He moved to step around the man but froze when Hogan placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, halting him. Peter glanced at him, but Hogan's face was as if it were carved out of stone; emotions were something that never made themselves known on his face.

Peter's eyes then slid to the lobby of Stark Tower. It was filled, surprisingly, by many more security guards. They didn't look they were sent from the FBI, but they radiated that kind of aura; their gloved hands were clasped around their firearms, the helmets that covered their faces a glossy black and reflective. There were at least two dozen of them scattered around the lobby, and one of them made their way to Peter and Hogan.

The guard paused beside Hogan and said, 'Are you Mr. Parker?' At Peter's nod, the guard said, 'Follow me. I'll escort you.'

That sentence had Peter nearly raising an eyebrow in confusion. His heart thudded quickly, then, and his sixth sense paused for just a moment. The guards knew where he was going? If they did, Peter expected they would be riddling him with bullets the moment he stepped through the doors. Couldn't have a traitor in a technology conglomerate, now.

 _Or_ , Peter thought, _Stark Industries has other plans for me._

Trying to avoid suspicion, Peter raised his chin and played along with the guards. 'Thanks,' he said curtly, 'but I know where to go.'

'Maybe,' the guard answered. 'But I have my orders.'

Yes, Stark Industries seemed to have more up its metaphorical sleeves.

It was better to play along now than to give away his allegiance. Peter nodded and threw Hogan a nonchalant but questioning look; the man only huffed and turned away. The guard began striding through the lobby, Peter trailing him from a distance.

Most of the other guards gathered in the lobby ignored them as they moved towards the elevator. A second guard sidled up behind Peter, gun clicking as he walked. Peter swallowed as the first guard pressed a button on the elevator, and the doors immediately slid open. He stepped into the elevator and waited for Peter and the other guard to file inside.

The guards stood on either side of the door, pushing Peter to the back of the tight space. The guard on the left swiped a card next to a scanner by the buttons; the key, Peter figured. He watched as the man then straightened and said out loud, 'Agent 54, Level 65.'

Peter kept a straight face as he glanced at the Stark Tower floor directory. At the very top of the list of floors, the words _LEVEL 60 TO 70: MANAGEMENT_ burned white against the grey walls. Why were they were heading straight to the levels with the company's leaders? What could they possibly discuss? New plans of some kind? It was definitely not going to be a farewell card, that was for sure.

Peter cracked a small grin. He doubted Tony Stark would be present, then.

After the guard spoke, the elevator jostled and began to move upward. The numbers above the elevator ticked upward slowly. _1...2...3..._

Peter then realised he only had a few minutes to somehow stop the elevator and bring him down to the sublevels without the guards interfering. He couldn't change levels without the key to the elevator, the one that the guards had...unless his own identification worked. Mr. Stark pointed out earlier that his ID would work; maybe he just had to subdue the guards and then take control of the elevator.

He ran the possibilities in his head. He could move forward and kick Agent 54 in the knee and push him to the ground. He could take his gun and level it at the remaining guard, but by that time the other guard would have shot him. Peter knew better than to expect to be shot at just to be subdued; the agents would most likely aim for his heart or his head – the easiest way to send a superhuman unconscious.

That wouldn't work. Peter then thought about throwing himself at the guard on the left. He could pin him to the wall and prevent his arms from reaching for his gun. Agent 54 would respond by yanking Peter off him instead of shooting in fear of accidentally sending a bullet through the other guard's head. When Agent 54 moved forward, Peter could kick him back and wrestle with them before he knocked them both out.

Okay. Simple. Messy, but simple.

Peter inhaled sharply. Held his breath for three seconds.

_1._

_2._

_3._

Peter surged forward, raising his hands and his knee to forcefully shove the agent on the left against the wall with a loud _WHAM_. The elevator rattled slightly at the force, but the numbers above the elevator doors kept climbing. _19...20...21..._

Agent 54 responded just as Peter expected. He ran forward to help his comrade, but Peter kicked him back to the other side of the elevator.

The guard managed to wriggle out of Peter's grip and cock his rifle, safety clicking off. Peter brought up his leg and kicked the man in his thigh, sending him sliding down the wall. Peter's sixth sense buzzed just as Agent 54 brought his fist back to punch Peter; the roles were reversed in seconds, with Peter blocking the attack and shoving the agent back onto his butt.

The guard behind him dropped his gun and instead wrapped his arms around Peter, pining his arms to his sides. A ferocious growl slipped out of Peter's mouth as the guard pushed downward, trying to wrestle Peter to the ground. He must have forgotten that Peter was a superhuman, and that he had nine times the average human's strength.

Peter twisted his body sharply, angling his legs so he pushed off Agent 54's helmet and slammed the guard into the wall of the elevator. The guard behind him choked on a surprised breath, and Peter wrenched himself out of his grip and brought a fist to the side of the man's head.

The helmet cracked as Peter punched the guard's temple. Bits of plastic and glass rained to the ground. The guard's posture immediately sagged, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Peter barely had time to celebrate his minor victory when his sixth sense screeched. He skipped forward to avoid a roundhouse kick from Agent 54, and returned it with one of his own. Peter raised his leg and brought his ankle to the side of Agent 54's exposed neck. His head snapped back and he crumpled against the wall. Agent 54 was knocked out before he hit the floor.

Breathing heavily, Peter dragged the two unconscious guards and tucked them into the corner of the elevator. He then made his way to the buttons laid into the elevator's walls and tapped on a button towards the very bottom. Then he pressed his identification card against the scanner and waited for the elevator to stop.

It didn't. The numbers kept rising: _32...33...34..._

Peter pressed his ID harder against the scanner, noting his breathing had picked up a little. Why wasn't it working?

He huffed out a sigh of frustration and looked about the elevator, trying to find some sort of mechanism that could override the elevator—

Winking in the corner of the ceiling was a camera, its lens focusing on Peter's every move.

Peter bit his lip as random bits of information floated through his mind. It wasn't unusual to have a camera in an elevator; in fact, someone must have _seen_ Peter just take out two guards for no apparent reason. More agents would be waiting for Peter once he got to the floor the elevator was to stop at.

But this was an elevator in _Stark Industries_.

Peter's eyebrows shot up.

Well, first time for everything. They didn't have talking elevators in the building where the Toomes family lived in; anything was possible at this point.

Peter stepped slowly towards the camera, maintaining eye contact with it as he avoided stepping on the guard's hand laying haphazardly on the ground. He tilted his head up and called, 'J.A.R.V.I.S.? You there?'

Suddenly the lights flickered in the elevator. Cold air hissed, and from hidden speakers in the walls Peter heard J.A.R.V.I.S.'s cool voice intone, ' _Greetings, Peter_.'

'Oh, thank _God_ ,' Peter sighed in relief. 'Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S., I need your help. Can you stop this elevator from reaching the higher floors?'

' _I'm sorry, Peter_ ,' J.A.R.V.I.S. replied softly. ' _I am afraid I cannot do that. Agent 54 has already registered himself as the one to control wherever the elevator goes to. To act against his orders is to violate my protocols_.'

'But can you see that he's _knocked out?_ ' asked Peter. 'Stark Industries has got something planned for me, but I know it's nothing good. The superhuman protests are literally happening outside, and I need to help them.'

' _I'm sorry, Peter_ ,' J.A.R.V.I.S. said again, but Peter cut him off before he could say anything else.

'J.A.R.V.I.S.,' Peter said stiffly, 'Mr. Stark told me to head to The Raft beneath the tower.'

The elevator then shuddered to a stop with a quiet groan, the number above the doors resting at a blazing _49_ ; Peter had to grip the walls to keep himself from faceplanting into the limp forms of the unconscious guards beside him. The lights buzzed, and then J.A.R.V.I.S. asked, ' _I take it Sir has given you permission to access The Raft and its occupants?_ '

'Yes,' Peter said. 'Yes, he did. I need to get down there, J.A.R.V.I.S.; only you can help me with that.'

A few seconds lapsed in silence, as if the A.I. was registering Peter's plea. Then the elevator jolted again and Peter began moving. This time, though, the numbers above the doors began to rewind at much quicker pace: _49...48...47..._

Peter sighed in relief. 'Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.,' he said softly.

J.A.R.V.I.S. didn't reply; the only evidence of him registering Peter's gratitude was a quick flicker of the lights, as if he was nodding in response.

* * *

The elevator sunk below the ground, every second that ticked by meaning another floor they passed. Peter watched the numbers drop steadily, as if he were falling down a giant's gullet. The elevator fell through the sublevels, before all the lights in the elevator clicked off.

Peter's sixth sense didn't rustle; no, there was danger here. At least, not right now.

The elevator was filled with a soft turquoise glow, the same hue as the glow from Mr. Stark's repulsor gauntlets. Peter could feel the elevator slow before coming to a gentle stop. The lights blinked, and J.A.R.V.I.S. said, ' _Welcome to The Raft, Peter_.'

Peter nodded his thanks to the camera in the corner of the elevator. He situated the unconscious guards to the back of the elevator as he said, 'J.A.R.V.I.S., when I leave, would you mind blocking the elevator traction until I come back? Oh, and don't let the guards out; that would be messy.'

' _Of course, Peter. Good luck_.'

J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice faded just as the doors opened with a hiss. Peter found himself holding a breath as he stepped out of the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a final _thunk_.

The Raft was unlike anything Peter expected. Judging from simply the name, Peter thought it was pretty dumb to have thought The Raft would be worn-down and shabby. But Tony Stark had made it; he would rather spruce everything with modern technology than leave it to rot from outdated software and rusting parts.

Peter found himself at the centre of a large circular room; Peter guessed the diameter of the room to be about twenty metres. The elevator behind him stood in the complete centre, alongside a second elevator that remained shut in some sort of pillar that ran from the floor up to the ceiling. The room was filled with soft white light, making the shadows seem darker and fuzzier. The ground beneath him was made from grey wedge wire, welded tightly together. The walls were made of the same wire, except they were thicker and wound around metal frames.

And surrounding Peter were plexiglass doors lined with horizontal bars. There were at least fifty of them, each one maybe three metres wide, a metre in between each one with an identification scanner laid into the metal. The doors led to small square rooms, tinted blue from the small glowing slits in their walls. Beds and small toilet units were pressed against the walls to allow more space in the middle.

And sitting on the beds or lounging on the floor or stalking by the doors of the containment cells, dressed in blue shirts and pants and grey long sleeves with power-dampening collars snapped around their throats, were the superhumans Peter helped lock up.

Peter gazed at them. They didn't look any different than when Peter last saw them a week, a month, maybe three months ago, except maybe for longer hair and slightly gaunt figures. The sharp look in their eyes were always the same.

Pietro Maximoff's ice-cold gaze snapped to Peter, and a snarl had his mouth curling. ' _You_ ,' he breathed.

The tone of his voice sent a chill down Peter's spine, but he raised his chin. 'Hi, Pietro,' Peter said softly – his first words upon meeting the superhuman.

Pietro's face was twisted in disgust and anger, and he looked about ready to smash through the glass to his cell if not for the collar around his neck. And if not for the voice that spoke up.

'What are you doing here?' asked Van Dyne. She was sitting on the bed, slouching against the wall. She had a straitjacket on, her arms pulled around and behind her. With the collar around her own neck, Peter could see her blue eyes were slightly unfocused. The cuts on her wrists, when she had tried to literally cut her hands off trying to strangle Peter back at the NYPD precinct, were nothing but faint white marks on her wrinkled skin.

'I'm here to free you,' Peter replied.

A scoff from one side. Further down the cells, a man pressed his hands to the glass as he ground out, 'I have a hard time believing that, kid.' Bucky was scowling at him from the other side of the glass. He looked physically drained, as if the collar had sapped him of all his superhuman strength, but a simmering heat boiled in his dark eyes.

Peter felt his sixth sense prickle savagely and his heart thud violently upon seeing him.

It wasn't every day you saw someone die in front of you, and then come back looking tired but alive.

 _Oh. This was what Mr. Stark was feeling when he saw Peter get shot_.

Shaking his head to clear the suffocating thoughts, Peter stepped forward and said loudly, 'Listen to what I'm saying. There's a revolution going on outside; superhumans are marching through the streets, and—'

'What, you want us to round them up and dump them here?' demanded Pietro. 'You are being enslaved by those humans; just wait until I get my hands around your thin neck—'

'I want to free you so you can _join them_ ,' Peter emphasised, ignoring Pietro's heated threats. 'I'm sure you've heard what's going to happen soon: every superhuman in the country is being rounded up and brought here to be killed.' He furrowed his eyebrows at the superhumans around him. 'I'm sure you wouldn't want to see that.'

Further down was a girl, looking maybe a year or two older than Peter with warm brown skin and shiny black hair. Kamala Khan, he vaguely remembered, raised a shaking hand to the glass. She piped up, 'How do we know you aren't just messing with us?'

Peter stared at her, discreetly wringing his hands, then said, 'The Captain allowed me to come here and free everyone.'

The name was like lightning striking everything at once. Most of the superhumans' head turned towards Peter, except for a few who were puzzled. Pietro was one of them, asking, 'The Captain? Who is that? I've been stuck in this shithole for too long—'

'Steve let you come here?' whispered Bucky. He shuffled closer towards Peter as much as his cell could allow him, eyes wide and some kind of frenzied strength pulling him upright. 'You found The Compound?'

'I— yes, I found it,' Peter said after a moment. 'The humans, they...they found figured out where it was while I was there...they, I— Rog— _Steve_ blew it up.'

'But everyone made it out?' asked Bucky.

His voice wouldn't work after that. Peter could only nod.

That appeared to be all that Bucky needed. He sighed and let his forehead fall against the glass, his breath fogging the glass slightly. The other superhumans grew unsettled from his suddenly relaxed posture.

'Get us out of here, Parker,' Bucky said after a moment. 'Any funny business and I snap your neck.'

A lot of other superhumans looked at Peter expectantly, as if they too wanted to wring his neck the first chance they got.

Peter raised his hand in agreement, stepping forward to Bucky's cell, holding out a hand with his ID card stretched outward towards the scanner by the door. His footsteps echoed oddly around the room, and Peter's sixth hummed. 'You have my word,' Peter promised. 'I mean it; we'll all get out of here in a few minutes—'

A gun clicked.

A muffled curse, 'Jesus Christ, asshole, you're paying for my accessories.'

Peter's stomach dropped.

'Hey, Pete!' a low voice called; it was loud and cheery, odd and terrifying in a place like this. Peter hadn't heard that voice in five years; he found himself at peace in those five years. To hear it again was like Peter's inside were boiling with lead nitrate all over again.

'Come now, bud, step away from the mutants,' the voice continued. 'After all, we wouldn't to have brains splattering over the floor.'

Peter's hand clutching his ID card twitched as he instinctively froze. He turned his body around, arm still lingering by the scanner as he turned to face the two people who had just entered The Raft.

Tony Stark had a bruise forming under his right eye. His hair was tousled and his clothes were rumpled; it looked like he had been rolling around in the dirt for a bit. The only thing missing from his figure were the signature glasses – the ones he had used to take a photo of Peter's web fluid formulae – and his watch that transformed into his repulsor gauntlet. Both of which seemed to be the things that were supposedly broken.

'Sorry, Peter,' Mr. Stark said after a moment. 'This bastard had me thinking it was you upstairs.'

Then Peter saw the barrel of a gun pressed to Mr. Stark's temple—

'Who is that?' whispered Van Dyne.

—Said gun was held by the man who was responsible for Peter's very first death.

Quentin Beck grinned at Peter, happy and jovial and demented as always. His blue eyes were filled with manic energy. His brown hair was thick and combed over his head while his beard was scruffy but shaven close towards his face. His grey shirt, dark jeans and face were covered by small glittering patches clipped to his arms, his chest and abdomen, and down his legs. Hard-light hologram pads, Peter realised; Beck specialised in holographics and sensory stimulation.

His sixth sense rattled.

'Yeah,' said Beck. 'You've seen some of my holographic tech, hmm?' He wiggled his fingers, and the hologram pads twinkled like mesh in the sunlight. The pads lit up, and light wove around him in blue pixels until Peter saw himself holding a gun to Mr. Stark's head.

Peter had to blink rapidly to make sure he wasn't floating out of his body and was about to murder someone.

'Pretty cool, right?' asked Beck behind the hologram of Peter Parker, his face warping as he spoke. 'I've made some adjustments – now they're hard-light, so you can touch me and it would feel like the real thing.'

God, even his _voice_ matched Peter's. That was horrifying. Who knew what could happen if someone unhinged as Beck had access to these.

'Kid,' called Mr. Stark, 'remember the guy I said who was incapable of running my company? Yeah, it's him.'

He jerked his thumb towards Beck, who shoved Mr. Stark's head back with the barrel of the gun.

Beck was Stark Industries' current CEO. That revelation...shouldn't have seemed as anticlimactic as it was.

Peter's hand quivered as he said, 'Beck, you don't know what you're meddling with.'

'Oh, I don't?' Beck feigned shock, pressing his hand against his chest; the hologram copied with perfect precision, mimicking Peter's surprised expression. 'I know exactly what's going on here: you're trying to break the mutants out.'

'Innocent people are being killed,' Peter hissed at him.

'Don't make me shoot _this_ innocent person, then,' Beck said nonchalantly.

Peter ground his teeth. 'If I step back,' he said, 'I do I know you won't shoot him?'

'My main priority is to get you away from the cells,' Beck told him as if he was lecturing a child. 'It's up to you whether Stark lives or not.' Beck then glowered, his hologram-disguised face contorting as he snapped, 'Hurry up, Parker: are you going to save your friend or sacrifice him for a losing cause?'

Peter didn't see why he tried convincing him; it was impossible to appeal to a man as unstable as Beck, anyway.

'Alright!' Peter almost growled at him. 'Alright.' He stepped away from the door to Bucky's cell, holding up his hands and his ID card. 'Now let Mr. Stark go.'

His sixth sense crackled just as Beck turned the gun on him.

Mr. Stark moved to wrestle the gun out of his grip, but Beck forcefully shoved him back.

Unbeknownst to anyone of them, it provided Peter the perfect opening.

Just as Beck had shoved Mr. Stark away, Peter raced forward to tackle him around the waist. Gone was the form of a man in his early thirties bent over in a chair; Peter could feel the toned muscles of a young, athletic person under a crisp shirt and stiff suit. Beck truly wasn't lying – the hard-light holograms made it seem as if Beck was truly Peter Parker, and that only frightened him more.

Peter pushed, and Beck grunted, his gun slipping from his hand as Peter moved to his back and tried to pull him over his shoulder. Beck seemed to be prepared however, and reached up and judo-flipped Peter – just as he had done to Pietro a long time ago.

Peter shot to his feet, kicking away the gun Beck dropped and pushing Beck back. Beck's disguise flickered momentarily as he tried to aim a punch at Peter's head, and then another; both times, Peter blocked, which was probably why he couldn't react to his sixth sense in time when it blared.

Beck leaned down and swept his leg outward, knocking them both to the ground. Peter winced as he got to his feet. He had to end this. He had to end the fight, pin Beck down and just _move_. He had to move, free the superhumans and get up into the fray where he just knew chaos reigned the streets above. Peter righted himself and placed a knee on Beck's chest, pushing him to the ground when Peter saw Mr. Stark straighten suddenly.

'HOLD IT!' bellowed Mr. Stark, brandishing Beck's gun, holding it forward like a sword.

Suddenly Peter's hackles raised as the holographic form of Peter Parker beneath him relaxed. Beck tried to push him off, sighing, 'Thanks, Mr. Stark. I don't know how I would have managed without you.'

Only Peter's voice echoed through The Raft.

Peter stepped back, watching as Beck-Peter pulled himself to his feet. A sort of ice-cold horror sunk into his gut; Beck had always had a thing for a drama. It sickened him to know that this was the kind of thing it was used for – mirroring other people so that he wouldn't have to do all the dirty work himself.

'Get rid of him,' Beck-Peter urged Mr. Stark. 'We have no time to lose.'

The gun snapped towards Peter's chest.

Sixth sense rustling, Peter turned sharply towards the man and said, 'It's me, Mr. Stark. I'm the real Peter.'

Beck-Peter glared at him; for some reason, anger didn't seem to fit on the holographic face of Peter Parker. Good – make expressions that outed you out sooner.

'One of you is my partner,' Mr. Stark remarked. 'The other is a sack of shit. I would know who Beck was if he hadn't destroyed my glasses. So, the question is, who is who?'

Beck-Peter questioned, 'What are you doing, Mr. Stark? I'm the _real_ Peter.' He gave Peter a sly look, stepping forwards as he said, 'Give me the gun and I'll take care of him—'

'Don't move!' yelled Mr. Stark, gesticulating the gun in his hand. Beck-Peter froze, biting his lip in thought; the same way Peter did when he tried to figure out what to do. Mr. Stark seemed torn between the two, his gun flicking to the disguised Beck and back to Peter every few seconds.

Peter's fingers twitched as he glanced at Mr. Stark and suggested, 'Why don't you ask us something?' Mr. Stark gave him a look. Peter elaborated: 'Ask us something only the real Peter would know.'

Mr. Stark hesitated, then nodded slowly, his eyes flickering back and forth. 'Uh, where did we first meet?' he asked.

Peter opened his mouth, but he was immediately left in the dust.

Beck-Peter's voice rang out loud and clear: 'Jimmy's Bar. I had to look through numerous security cameras and cross-reference people who looked like you. We went to the scene of a homicide. The victim's name was Henry Pym.'

 _So extra_ , Peter wanted to snap, but then it dawned on him.

_Beck had seen the files._

The files that Peter had noted in. Everything, from the cases to his interactions with Mr. Stark – Beck had access to them. He could virtually answer any question Mr. Stark asked.

He took a shuddering breath as Mr. Stark asked the second question: 'What's the name of the robot in the Tower?'

Beck-Peter practically yelled, 'DUM-E! Its name is DUM-E.'

'I knew that too!' Peter snapped at him, in worry, in desperation, in fear. Beck was playing along so well, he mimicked Peter brilliantly. It scared Peter to even think that. If Mr. Stark _did_ shoot at Peter, who knew what sort of hell the man would descend into. The revolution would fail, countless people would die, and it was all because Beck was a better Peter than he was.

But Mr. Stark was oddly silent. His eyes still moved, but less frantically and more calmly; as if he was evaluating, compiling all the data laid out before him and picking out things that made sense. The gun was hovering over Beck's chest before it was repositioned over Peter's and locking his eyes with Peter's.

They were dark, but they were warm. There was something in his eyes, like some sort of spark of hope or belief; but it was only a little, as if too much would set the whole world on fire. His voice was equally low as he asked softly, 'My daughter. What's her name?'

Beck-Peter's mouth opened, then he faltered like a machine. Sound died in his throat, and a blank look of confusion and fear crept into Beck's expression. He glanced at Peter, as if hoping he wouldn't know either; hoping that Peter had forgotten it, or never asked for it, or misheard it for another name.

But Peter wouldn't forget something as important as a name.

'Morgan,' Peter replied, staring back into Mr. Stark's eyes. 'Her name was Morgan.' He glanced at his feet without tilting his head, saying quietly, 'You and Miss Potts were engaged, and you had a daughter. You were all close. But...then the superhuman revolution began. That's when the murders and the rioting began. Your wife was afraid of what you created and took Morgan away to keep themselves safe.'

_That's why you're so alone._

'That's why you don't care much for superhumans,' Peter said. 'You think we're responsible for driving your family away. That's why you hate us.'

_That's why you hate me._

Mr. Stark's eyebrows furrowed. His eyes were cold and hard as ice.

And the gun lowered a little.

'Pepper and Morgan never left me in fear of the revolution,' Mr. Stark said after a long, painful pause. 'We were driving back from a conference when a man high on Extremis stepped onto the middle of the road. He thought he was just as strong as a superhuman after taking it; thought he couldn't die.'

Mr. Stark sighed – a sigh so deep, so heartfelt and wracked with guilt it made Peter's knees wobble. 'I swerved around him,' Mr. Stark said. 'I swerved— I tried, I tried to avoid hitting him, but even then...Pepper and Morgan were gone. He was the one who took them from me.' Mr. Stark blinked. 'That man, and so many others...they thought it could grant them powers. I forced the higher officials to pull Extremis from the market. And even then, so many more people died. Because of me.'

The gun shook in Mr. Stark's hand. 'Superhumans and Extremis; my weapons for humanity.'

'No,' whispered Peter just as Beck-Peter raised his voice.

'I knew about your daughter too!' Beck said loudly. 'I would have said exactly the same thing! Don't listen to him, Tony, I'm the one who—!'

_BANG!_

The sound of a gun going off sounded louder in The Raft. Beck's illusion flickered, and Peter caught sight of the bearded man with his eyes glazed over, a dark red spot growing from the centre of his forehead. Peter watched as Beck fell backwards, limbs akimbo, blood spurting in a fountain from the motion and pooling around his head.

Mr. Stark lowered his gun, and Peter looked up to meet his gaze. 'During the time we've been together, you've never said my first name, even when you were desperate,' Mr. Stark noted. He gestured the gun at Beck's cold form. 'I had my suspicions, and he proved it.'

Mr. Stark glanced around The Raft, looking at the superhumans locked in their cells and saying, 'If anyone asks, just say he was caught in the crossfire. Very irresponsible man, this one.'

Peter chuckled in relief. He couldn't help it. The entirety of the situation had been dark and mind-numbing; to hear a man like Mr. Stark try covering up a murder with a simple _He got caught in the crossfire_ was absolutely ridiculous.

Mr. Stark made this a literal homicide scene, and if life were normal, Peter might have come here to investigate; but Peter couldn't bring himself to care.

Upon hearing Peter's snickering, Mr. Stark smiled slightly. 'You know, I've learned a lot from when I first met you, Pete,' Mr. Stark admitted. 'Maybe there is something to this. I hope you will be the ones to make the world a better place.'

Mr. Stark stepped forward and pressed the gun into Peter's hand. It wasn't forceful and dominating like when Ross had tried to get Peter to shoot, no; Mr. Stark's movements were soft and open, almost hesitant, as if he was expecting Peter to brush the gun aside and move on.

Politely, Peter took the gun and slipped it into the pocket of his pants, not caring that it was uncomfortable against his leg. He just watched Mr. Stark, who stared back at him.

'Please,' Mr. Stark said, 'just call me Tony. I think we've gotten way past the professionalism of this relationship.'

Peter's breath fluttered, and he smiled. 'Okay, then, _Tony_.'

Mr. Stark— Tony nodded. He raised his hands, gesticulating to the entirety of the Raft and the world beyond. 'Do what you gotta do, Peter. The front doors are going to be literally wide open for your exit.'

Peter nodded. He stepped away and bent down to pick up the ID card he had dropped earlier when Beck had pointed the gun at him. As he straightened, his eyes swept over the superhumans still locked inside their cells.

It might have just been him, but he thought their entire mannerisms had changed. Van Dyne didn't seem so cold; the fury and hate in Pietro's eyes had dimmed; even Bucky seemed less fatigued now, as if watching the scuffle and the mind-numbing exchange between Beck, Tony and Peter had empowered them, somewhat.

Maybe they could see now that not all humans were bad.

Peter moved towards Bucky's cell and pressed his ID card against the scanner by the door. A buzz sounded, and the doors buckled and retracted. They retreated into the walls, and the lights in Bucky's cell shut off.

Everyone watched with bated breath.

Almost hesitantly, Bucky stepped forward. His dark hair was greasy and hung in untidy strands like rat tails. He blinked in the white light, stretched his arms, then his eyes slid towards Peter. Even without his strength, he towered in the same way Steve did; though not in the way of a leader, but more as a friend.

His collar set heavily around his neck, and Peter ran a finger along its side before holding his ID card against the inlaid scanner at the back. The red light that blinked constantly flickered and died, and the collar snapped open. Peter reached up for it and pulled it away from Bucky's throat and dropped it the ground, kicking it away.

Bucky raised his hand and rubbed at his throat; it was a little pink, most likely sore but nothing too serious. After a moment, he rolled back his shoulders and smiled, clapping his hand on Peter's shoulder; the instant the collar turned off was probably the moment his strength returned. 'Okay, kid,' he said. 'Are you going to free the others?'

Peter nodded, then moved along the walls, pressing his identification card against every scanner in The Raft. The cell doors hissed open, and the superhumans shuffled out, looking around them. Peter moved to each one, deactivating their collars and unwinding straitjackets and checking if they were physically unhurt. Thankfully, none of them tried to strangle him; he probably earned some sort of respect.

Once everyone was freed, the superhumans crowded around Peter and Tony in an arc, murmuring to one another. Kamala stood on her toes, her polymorphic superhuman ability granting her extra height, and asked above the heads of the other superhumans, 'What do we do now?'

'Now,' Peter called, raising his voice so the other fifty or so superhumans could hear, 'we leave Stark Tower and help with the protests. There are guards by the exits, so we take them down and leave; try not to kill anyone, because that won't do our cause any justice.'

'They caused us pain,' Van Dyne objected.

'They're trying to kill us,' Pietro added.

'That doesn't mean they deserve death,' Peter countered. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. 'We want peace, not violence. Fight fire with fire and we would only burn the world. We just have to make the humans see that.'

Tony patted Peter's arm. 'Poetic little shit,' he murmured softly, a smile evident in his tone.

Peter grinned, and he held his head up high as he faced the superhumans. They stared back with equal vigour, muscles tense and ready to move at a moment's notice. Peter could feel it in the air – electric and powerful, a wave of energy ready to burst open the container it was locked in.

He could feel his sixth sense writhing, but he ignored it in favour of believing it was the because of all the power gathered in one space, just like in The Compound. Peter, itching to move as well, held back the exhilaration of it all and asked, 'Are you ready to fight for freedom?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forget Iron Man Jr  
> This is Captain America Jr equipped with Tony Stark sass


	16. ⌜The Final Confrontation⌟

_**⌞Chapter 16⌝ ≎ ⌜The Final Confrontation⌟** _

It took less than three seconds for Pietro to speed through the Stark Tower’s lobby and disarm every guard. Cold metal and golden pellets clattered to the ground in a cacophony, a tintinnabulation accompanying Peter and the superhumans formerly locked in The Raft as they burst into the lobby.

Peter took down guards left and right, smacking heads and pinning them underneath him until they were yanked unconscious. The yells of superhumans, the hum of their power, filled his senses, but he mainly focused on what they were doing.

Van Dyne was busying herself by stunning the guards, her glowing hands pressing against their skin as she shrunk and grew at rapid speeds, catching them all by surprise. Pietro and Bucky were merely disorientating them, tossing them about and pinning them down. Kamala shoved them against the walls, cracking the plaster beneath them.

In moments, every guard was curled up on the ground, breathing softly, all knocked unconscious. The sound of their breaths comforted Peter more or less; no one died in their skirmish here, and he could live with that.

He turned and faced the panting group of superhumans and called, ‘Okay, we’re done here. Now we have to find the protests outside. Remember, we’re only disarming, not killing.’

‘Where are the protests?’ asked Kamala, flicking her hair over shoulder.

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, a low rumble shook the ground. It was like the one back at The Compound – an explosion boiling beneath, except a little fainter but nonetheless powerful.

He turned to look outside, past the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the dark world outside. Flurries of snow sprinkled about, dotting the ground like stars that were painted on the ground. His eyes trailing the paths, Peter looked up to see where they lead to in the distance. Further along where the buildings of New York City, dark and blank, revealing nothing. Helicopters whizzed between the towers, spotlights sweeping the ground beneath them; smaller aircraft circled the city, most likely news reporters trying to get their piece of the events.

And from somewhere deep within the jungle of buildings, Peter could see a plume of smoke rise up from the ground.

‘The city!’ he yelled at the superhumans, already running for the doors. ‘The protests are in the city!’ He slammed the doors open and raced onto the streets, his coat and tie flapping in the cold air. The road was choked with cars and trucks – people must have been fleeing the city, trying to escape the danger of being caught between the superhumans and law enforcement. The loud _CRACK_ of flying bullets echoed in the air like firecrackers.

That only made Peter run faster.

He sprinted for the city, his arms and legs pushing him forwards as fast as he could. Behind him, he could hear the thundering of the superhumans running behind and alongside him.

Peter led the superhumans through the streets, doing nothing more than disable the weapons of police forces as they ran past. Even here, there was barely any light from the buildings; it looked like a ghost city, dead and silent. The emptiness unnerved Peter to no end – after all, New York was anything but calm and quiet – but then he could hear sounds and see lights coming from somewhere ahead of him, and suddenly the buildings pulled away sharply and Peter and the superhumans found themselves in a ghostly Times Square.

The billboards were blazing, casting an ethereal glow over everything present in Times Square. There was a barricade formed by the riot shields of the defence department, curved around in an elliptical shape; the officers had their guns drawn, their nozzles poking from between the gaps of the shields. Helicopters hovered high above and roaring along with the breeze, their spotlights trained along the ground.

In the centre of it all was a ring of haphazardly placed items like benches and bags of gravel and sand enclosing a small space. There was a dome surrounding it, flickering with red and gold. And from within that circle, Peter could see Steve Rogers and his small group of superhumans. He could see Wanda, and Stephen, and Murdock, a kind of weight pressing down on them. Bodies bleeding red and eyes already red-rimmed and teary, tired.

The rebellion and their last line of defence.

A fire burned within Peter as he yelled, ‘Disarm their weapons! Don’t engage!’

His cry caught the officers off-guard as Peter leapt forward, twirling in the air and over the barricade of riot shields, snagging a few guns as he went, crushing the barrels with his hands easily. The superhumans dispersed around him, cracking rifles and other firearms. Glass windows shattered, the air charged up with energy, metal went flying, concrete cracked and groaned. Bullets crackled, but they never found their mark – they embedded in the concrete, in walls, through windows, but none sunk into a body.

A few tense seconds later, and every officer stood with a ruined firearm in his hands. They all looked up, pulling up radios and comms and hidden guns as they watched the superhumans form a tight circle around the ruined barricade encompassing Steve and his group when Peter stepped forward and stood his ground and raised his hands out to either side of him even while his sixth sense screamed and instead yelled, ‘STOP!’

His voice carried long and clear, echoing twice before silencing. Police who had spare guns had them aimed at Peter, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care in the slightest – if they wanted Steve, if they wanted to end the protests, they would have to go through him.

He could see recognition light up in a few officers’ faces, as if they could see the superhuman in front of them was none other than Peter Parker from the New York Police Department. They were probably wondering why one of their best had suddenly turned on them; Peter would have thought the same if it was someone other than him.

‘Hold your fire!’ he barked at the officers. ‘Don’t engage!’ Peter took a step forward. The guns clicked, their safety off.

‘What are you doing, Parker?’ an officer called, voice hesitant and tired, but his tone was sharp nonetheless.

‘Don’t you see?’ asked Peter, arms still raised; he gestured to the superhumans behind him. ‘What have they done to you? They simply walked the streets! They walked, they didn’t raise their hands or cause destruction! They walked because they wanted the freedom to do so. All we’ve been doing is supress them. I thought we were over that; I thought we learned from our mistakes! I thought we learned that we are all equals, no matter who we are. I thought America had grown to learn that oppressing people would only incite conflict. Why are we trying to repeat history’s mistakes? Why are we regressing back to our old ways?’

The officers’ guns twitched. Peter could tell they were doing everything they could to not glance at the person next to them, to see what they thought, to see if they thought that maybe, just maybe, Peter was onto something; that maybe he was right.

They didn’t have long to think when a sharp sound cut through the air. It was a wail; swallowed by grief, coated thickly with relief and worry. Peter didn’t need to turn around to see who had cried out, ‘ _Pietro?_ ’

Pietro flinched, turning around to see Wanda’s hands drop, her protective barrier scattering into red mist as she leapt over the barricade, tears streaming from her face as she raced towards Pietro.

Peter watched the Maximoffs barrel into each other’s arms, burying their heads in the crook of the other’s shoulder. Wanda was whispering things to her brother – worries, hopes, despairs – but Pietro just stood there, gently rocking her back and forth in his arms and pressing fleeting kisses to her head.

Another pair of footsteps sounded on Peter’s left, and he glanced at Steve dropping onto the other side of the barricade, his quick steps barely restrained as he moved to wrap his arms around Bucky, who returned the gesture with equal vigour. The two superhumans just embraced each other, their hands gripping each other tightly.

‘Till the end of the line?’ Peter heard Steve whisper.

‘Till the end of the line,’ Bucky replied, voice just as soft.

Peter watched the superhumans hug each other, and then his sixth sense faded to a hum.

The officers around the barricade lowered their guns.

And they were walking away.

They were _walking away_.

Peter’s breath hitched as he listened to the police barking orders to one another, retreating down through the streets, climbing into vehicles and mumbling, ‘President’s orders; apparently the superhumans have gained public approval.’

In minutes, the defence department had vanished without a trace, and Times Square grew silent and empty. Snow fluttered from the dark sky like confetti in slow-motion, and the superhumans began pulling apart their barricade as news reporters crawled slowly into the scene.

Peter saw the superhumans murmuring excitedly to one another and he couldn’t help but jog over to Steve, who finally pulled away from Bucky and stared around them in wonder as if they couldn’t believe that months of pushing back against the oppressive nature of the world around them was paying off. That freedom was literally waiting for them all.

‘You did it, Steve,’ Peter told him, unable to wipe that stupid grin that had appeared on his face.

Steve only smiled, clapping his hand against Bucky’s arm as he said, ‘ _We_ did it. It’s a great day for our people; humans will have no choice but to listen to us, now. And we couldn’t have done any of it without you, kid.’

Peter smiled, watching as the other superhumans gathered around them, looking at Steve as if he truly was their Messiah. They looked as if they were…waiting.

‘They want you to speak to them,’ Bucky remarked quietly. He gestured to the broken barricade behind them, to a large section that resembled a stage. It was at least twice Steve’s height, but he easily pulled himself up to the top, reaching out to pull Bucky up as well. Stephen floated up to the top, and so did Wanda and Pietro, looking out over the crowd. And Steve was pointing, beckoning—

—for Peter.

Steve wanted him to join them on a pedestal, as part of the group that strove for change for their people.

Eyes widening, Peter felt his feet move on their own accord. It felt like he was walking through water, the world becoming muffled and slowing down around him while his mind sped forward at unimaginable speeds.

So this was really happening, was it? All those months of horrors…it all led to this moment. To a revolution at its peak, where change was imminent, where all their efforts finally paid off, when their cause was finally given meaning. There had already caused so much change, it was too late for the world to back out now.

Peter slowly crawled up the side of the barricade, pulling himself to his feet and lingering towards the back of the stage, standing on the left of Wanda, Pietro and Stephen. The glow from the still-flickering billboards brightened the world around them, turning the snowflakes into slow-falling stars and highlighting every joyous expression on the superhuman faces below them and casting Steve and Bucky in an ethereal glow as they stepped forward.

And then The Captain began speaking.

‘Today,’ he began, ‘our people finally emerged from a long night. From the very first days of our existence, we have kept our pain to ourselves. We suffered in silence; but now, the time has come for us to raise our heads up and tell humans who we really are.’

Peter watched blood trickle from bullet wounds in Steve’s back. Watched it trickle to the ground, little splashes of red in the white world. Despite the wind picking up, he could still smell the stench of ionised blood, strong and acidic, and too much, too much, _too much_ —

Peter’s sixth sense screamed.

It screamed at such an intensity that Peter was instantly paralysed, as if he had suddenly turned into a block of ice and was watching the world at an angle where it seemed he wasn’t even in his body anymore.

His sixth sense flared like the sun, lighting up the thing he so carelessly ignored, and then he saw—

He saw—

_How had he not seen it?_

Nestled at the back of his neck—

_Ross reached up to ruffle Peter’s hair._

—a circular patch sat against his skin, glued to the base of his skull—

_Ross’ fingernails scraped against Peter’s scalp._

—Ross pressed something there, he _placed_ something there—

_The cold touch when Ross’ fingers pressed against the base of his head._

—a memory prober.

Peter’s breath hitched—

_‘Oh, Peter,’ Ross murmured, almost disappointedly, stepping out from behind him. ‘I had faith in you, you know.’_

—and his world collapsed into darkness.

* * *

Peter spluttered awake in the middle of a blizzard.

He bolted upright, the air clinging to him like claws with icicles digging into his skin. Everything was dark, coated in black, and Peter was sure he had gone blind until he brought his hand up to his face and saw them coated in a sickly blue glow.

Peter crawled onto his feet and why was it so cold? Where was he, what happened—?

Amidst the swirling snow around him, he saw a figure standing a few metres away, his back turned to Peter.

‘Ross?’ Peter called.

God, his voice was so small and timid, like ice had sealed his throat shut and stole away any semblance of confidence he had left.

Ross turned around, the same blue glow making his appearance all the more eery in a dark world like this. There was a smile on his face; an ugly one, a smile filled with complacency at mock pity for Peter.

‘Ross!’ Peter called again, louder this time as he wrapped his arms around him. ‘Ross, what— …what did you do?’

‘What was meant to be done,’ Ross said. His voice was smug as he strode towards Peter, almost towering over him. The man gestured to the place around him. ‘Like what I’ve done? I upgraded the memory probers just a bit; instead of transmitting memories and thoughts, why not just trap the person in their own mind?’

Peter grew sick as Ross continued. ‘You were compromised,’ stated Ross. ‘You became rogue. I just had to wait for the right moment to take matters into my own hands.’

‘You sick, son of a—’ Peter yelled. Pain laced through his body as he pushed forward, his hands raised to shove Ross’ stupid, ever-looming and life-draining presence away, preferably out of his mind, when Ross simply pushed him back with a single hand.

Peter went flying, skidding along the icy ground. He dug his fingers and feet into the sleet, their adhesiveness being the only thing keeping him from slipping away—

‘You’re _powerless_ , Peter,’ Ross reprimanded. ‘You don’t how to wield that power of yours.’

And suddenly Peter was slipping on the ice. His strength suddenly vanished. Instinctively, he reached up for his neck—

A power-dampening collar was clipped around his throat.

He looked up at Ross in shock, who only advanced on him, growling, ‘You are indecisive, you couldn’t make a decision if your life depended on it.’

Peter’s arms were suddenly pulled from underneath him – he could feel the straitjacket strap itself around him, tying him down. His breaths came out in pants as he mumbled through chattering teeth, ‘Ross, you bastard, _stop_ —’

‘You were the _lynchpin_ ,’ Ross emphasised. ‘You were the thing tying everything together. I tried, so many times, to pull you away…but you were too adamant. Too adamant to see that not I, not Rogers, but _you_ —’

Ross kicked Peter sharply in the side, and a wheeze hissed from Peter’s mouth; his superhuman strength would have softened the intensity of the blow, but there was the collar around his neck, and it made everything seem a little more painfully intense.

‘—you, Peter Parker, _you_ were the one that brought hell to America,’ sneered Ross. ‘You brought chaos to the city. And there you are, standing by the rogues as if you are their _saviour_.’

* * *

_The images in Peter’s mind’s eye flickered, and it took him a moment to see that it was all reversed – what was usually the darkness in his mind was now the thing that took up his conscious, while the events in the real world faded to just flashes and sounds._

_He could see Steve and Bucky in front of him; The Captain was still talking._

_‘Now, the time has come for us to raise our heads up and tell humans who we really are,’ Steve was saying to the assembled superhumans below. ‘To tell them that we are people too!’_

_Peter could feel his body twitch. He could feel his hand snake to the pocket of his pants, and pull out the gun Mr. St— Tony gave him earlier when he had gone to free the imprisoned superhumans. It felt cold in his hand as he repositioned his arm so the gun rested in his hands in front of him._

_So it would take him less then six seconds to fire a bullet through Steve’s skull._

* * *

Peter struggled to roll onto his back, his restrained arms and lack of his superhuman agility and strength making it all the more harder. Snow and sleet crunched under Ross’ feet as he stepped closer to Peter, sneering.

‘You were the best of the superhumans out there,’ Ross said disdainfully. ‘And I mean that literally – you were perfect for the job as a _mutant hunter_.’

Another sharp kick. Another sharp exhale. Peter squeezed his eyes shut against the biting cold.

‘You made a name for yourself. You showed the rogues to not fight against the power of the United States of America. But that reputation, that authority you held…’ Disgusted, Ross spat at Peter. ‘You threw it all away when you came into contact with Stark. The fault lies with the police department, but I never expected you two to become so attached.’

He sounded so revolted, so disgusted. Peter would have bit out a snarky remark if Ross hadn’t sent his foot colliding with the side Peter’s face.

‘You’re a failure, Parker,’ Ross growled at him, leaning down to hiss the words into Peter’s ear. ‘You failed your mission; and now, I will take the lead.’

* * *

_The gun was cocked, the safety clicked off. Peter’s finger found the trigger, and it shook in his hand as he raised it slightly._

* * *

Peter spat blood from his mouth, glaring weakly up at Ross. The man turned away, humming _tsk-tsk_ over and over like he was reprimanding a child. Which, maybe, was true. He was only seventeen, after all, and no one like him should have agreed to take a job like this.

‘You are severely inexperienced,’ agreed Ross, as if he could hear Peter’s thoughts. Carelessly and harshly, he nudged Peter onto his front with his foot, burying Peter’s face into the rigid snow and ice. ‘You don’t know how this world works; it’s not all friendship, or teamwork. It’s a bloodbath, an ocean filled with sharks who fight for the future in their own image.’ A pitiful expression bloomed on Ross’ face as he stared at Peter in sympathy. ‘This is just how the world works, Peter. I’m sorry you didn’t learn that sooner.’

Ice pooled in the pit of his stomach as Peter lay, freezing, on the sleet-covered ground. Frost grew along his body, rooting him to the ground. Everything grew numb around him, and he could hardly breath from the way he was lying on the ground; his breaths puffed up in small clouds of steam that fluttered away like every last sliver of hope he had left.

Ross was walking away, like he had not a care in the world.

And Peter lay there, feeling so very cold,

feeling so very empty,

and so

very

alone.

‘Mr. Parker?’ asked Peter as the caretaker hummed to himself and busying with the IV drips.

‘It’s just Ben, Peter,’ Ben replied, flicking a couple of switches on a few monitors.

‘Ben,’ Peter said then, fiddling with the blanket draped over his legs, ‘has this happened to any of the other superhumans?’

Ben paused, looking across the medical bed towards Peter, his glasses slipping a little down his face. ‘Well…no,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Not to anyone your age, I mean. Surely, a few of the older superhumans might have gotten overdosed once in a while, but it’s never too serious…’ Ben shrugged. ‘I guess we have to thank your healing factor for it.’

Peter nodded as he settled back into the bed. He glanced around the medical bay, noting the pasty white lighting and the lack of windows. Tools and machinery lay scattered around him, and a couple of chairs were placed by the door while a third was placed at the foot of his bed. An IV drip and its stand hovered by his right, draining something silvery from a needle embedded in his arm. He watched as the liquid flowed up and out of the tubing and into a pan, where it splattered noisily before hardening.

Turning back to Ben, who had found a seat at the foot of Peter’s bed, Peter asked, ‘Where’s Mrs. Pa— uh, I mean, where’s May?’

‘If she’s as boisterous as the weather,’ Ben remarked, ignoring Peter’s slip-up, ‘I’d say she’s probably screaming at the heads.’

‘Boisterous?’ asked Peter. He’d never heard of that word.

‘Ah, it means _energetic_ , I guess,’ said Ben. ‘A fancy word, isn’t it?’

‘Yep!’ grinned Peter. _Energetic_ seemed to be a great word that described May. She was always so lively and determined to get things done. ‘Why do you think May’s screaming at heads?’

‘The heads are the leaders of the company,’ Ben reminded him gently. ‘And one of the staff, who wasn’t supposed to be here in the growth facilities, came down and thought it would be a great idea to poison this little superhuman.’

‘But I pulled through!’ Peter said, sitting upright proudly before wincing and laying back down against his bed; his side was still sore from where the caretakers had to cut through his skin to get his organs out so they could flush out whatever poison was in him, Ben had said.

Ben smiled softly at him. ‘But you pulled through,’ he agreed, tapping Peter’s hand reassuringly.

They sat for a while, watching the slow _drip drip drip_ of the IV has it continued to drain the poison (‘Lead nitrate,’ Ben decided to add after a while, even though Peter was only seven and had no idea about his chemical compounds) from Peter’s bloodstream. May returned some time later after screaming at the heads, handing Peter a small croissant and a quick kiss to the top of his head on her way in. The two caretakers and the young superhuman grew comfortable in each other’s presence, talking about things that came to mind or playing simple word games (Peter learned a lot more words that day than he had before).

‘Um…’ Peter tapped a finger against his lip as he struggled to find a word beginning with _O_. ‘Uh, maybe…mayb— ooh! Ock— …occu…occupayshun?’

‘ _Occupation_ ,’ May nodded, excitement gleaming in her eyes as she flicked her brown hair over her shoulder. ‘You know what that means, Peter?’

‘Something you occupy?’ asked Peter. They had the same base word, after all.

‘Not really,’ corrected Ben. ‘It’s a job or a profession.’ He gestured to himself and May, both leaning close to each other and touching shoulders as he said, ‘May and I, our occupations are being caretakers for the superhumans at Stark Industries.’

Peter nodded slowly. ‘Did you always want to have, uh, being a caretaker as your occupation?’

May frowned. ‘What do you mean by that, honey?’ she asked.

Peter shrugged, playing with his fingers as he tried to figure out a better way to word his question. ‘I mean…did you want to be caretakers when you were little, like me?’ Peter gestured with his fingers by making the space between his thumb and forefinger really small so as to demonstrate _little_. ‘Was it your dream job?’

Ben and May bit their lips in thought – they looked pretty funny like that. Peter tried to do the same, tried to fold his lower lip in between his teeth; it kind of hurt. He stopped it; maybe he could do later when he was older?

‘Believe it or not, buddy,’ Ben said after a moment, ‘we didn’t think we’d end up as caretakers; I think we just took the job because we were old.’

‘Old?’ Peter laughed. ‘You aren’t old! How old are you?’

‘Forty-seven,’ May replied seriously.

‘Okay, maybe you _are_ old,’ Peter said. ‘But if you didn’t want to be caretakers, what did you want to be?’

‘I was a detective,’ Ben said smugly. ‘Like Sherlock Holmes, but with a gun.’

‘Ben!’ chided May, slapping her husband on the arm. ‘He’s just a kid!’

‘A kid who just visited Death’s doorstep,’ replied Ben. ‘He’s a tough one, I’m sure he could handle it.’ Rolling his eyes, Ben turned back to Peter and said, ‘Besides, the bad guys are always running about the place; I sometimes scare ‘em with a few warning shots to stop them from ruining my evidence.’ He mimicked a gun with his hand and made _PEW PEW PEW_ sounds.

‘Oh, Ben, stop it,’ May told him. Snorting, she turned from him and said to Peter, ‘While my husband here was blasting criminals to kingdom come, I was a nurse at the local hospital.’ She shrugged. ‘Not much of a different job, really. I don’t really want to see people wind up half-dead on a medical table.’

‘Like me?’ asked Peter innocently.

A solemn look passed both over Ben and May’s faces. ‘Oh, baby, no,’ May said gently, a pained look in her brown eyes. ‘That’s not what I meant. You…you’re different, Peter. A lot stronger, a lot healthier. Us regular humans…’ She shook her head. ‘…we’re a lot like glass. We get broken easily and it’s hard to put us back together.’

‘No one should be hurt like that,’ Peter said softly. ‘Everyone should be safe.’

‘Yeah, but lots of people don’t seem to think that,’ Ben said. He raised an imaginary gun. ‘Even people who do a lot of good can misuse the power they have in their hands. And that’s all it takes to make the world a dangerous place.’

Humming, Peter leaned back against the bed and ran a finger up and down the tubing connecting him to the IV. May was gently tapping a soothing rhythm against his shin, and Ben was looking over at a monitor before suddenly piping up.

‘You ever thought what name you might choose when you’re older?’ he asked.

Peter frowned at him in confusion. ‘But my name is Peter.’

‘Yeah, but you need a second name. A last name.’ Ben pointed to himself. ‘I’m Ben _Parker_ , and here, this wonderful woman is May _Reilly_.’

‘Then how come everyone calls you “Mrs. Parker”?’ wondered Peter.

‘I’m married,’ May said simply. ‘I changed my name to Ben’s last name because I love him very much.’

‘Awh,’ Ben said. ‘She says she loves me.’ He made a strange face, something like a kissy face, which was so atrocious that both May and Peter screeched to push him away before they all dissolved into quiet giggles.

‘Do all the superhumans get a last name?’ asked Peter.

‘Sure they do,’ May said. ‘Sometimes they just choose the names from a book, or a show they watch, maybe someone they see in real life. It all depends on what they want. I hear there was a superhuman – Matthew, was it? From a few floors down – he picked up the name _Murdock_ because he grew attached with a local boxer.’

Peter nodded slowly. He thought about it. He thought long and hard. May had said it all boiled down to whatever the superhuman wanted. It was their interests, what they thought impacted them the most.

‘I think,’ Peter said slowly, ‘I think…’

He watched Ben and May lean in closer.

‘…I think I like the sound of Peter Parker.’

He couldn’t miss the two caretakers’ looks of utter surprise on their faces.

‘Parker?’ asked May. ‘What…Why is that, Peter?’

Peter shrugged, somewhat shy. ‘I just…I don’t know, I really _like_ you both. You are one of the kindest people I’ve known, and you do really cool things together.’ He waved a hand at Ben and said, ‘I mean, if I could grow up and choose my own job, I would want to be a detective, too! Find the evidence and chase down the bad guys!’ He held up an imaginary gun and screeched _PEW PEW PEW!_

Ben and May chuckled, holding each other’s hands lightly as they looked fondly at Peter. ‘Well, bud, if that’s what you want,’ Ben said warmly. ‘I mean…I can’t tell you how proud we feel because of your choice, honestly. You’re like a kid to us. Saw you grow from this little baby to this adorable little boy.’

Embarrassed and shy but filled with the strange fluttery feeling of pride, Peter covered his face with his hands as he felt Ben lean over to ruffle his messy hair, letting out a shrill sound of protest as he tried to pull away Peter’s hands.

He didn’t make a sound when he felt May slip an arm around him and plant another kiss on his head, and heard Ben mumble soft promises and warm words. Peter just leaned into the embrace, smiling, content with how warm the world was in this small room.

‘You know,’ Mr. Stark had said as they were driving away from the Daily Bugle building after the authorities had strapped down Bucky’s dead body and sent caretakers from Stark Industries to take him back to the Tower, ‘today was shit.’

Peter only hummed in agreement as he absently watched the world outside the window whirl by in a swirl of greys and blues and whites. The authorities at the Daily Bugle had given him towels to wipe away the dirt and blood and to try and stop his own bleeding wound, but Peter could still the acidic smell of it, so much of it that he was sure even Mr. Stark was suffocating in it.

‘Hey, what happened up there…it— it wasn’t your fault,’ Mr. Stark said.

‘That’s reassuring, thank you,’ Peter said softly as he pressed down on the towels against his shoulder.

‘No, really, I mean it,’ Mr. Stark insisted. He turned to look at Peter, his hands gripping the wheel tightly to the point his knuckled turned white. ‘No one could have seen that. Not me, not the news, not even you and your danger sense. That was entirely on the superhuman’s part, that was his decision.’

‘I could have _stopped_ him,’ Peter muttered. His fingers twitched, and he worried his lip between his teeth and he frowned at everything and nothing in particular. ‘I could have _saved_ him…’

‘Yeah, well…’ Mr. Stark sighed as he made a sharp turn to the left. ‘Listen, I know I’m probably not the right person to be telling you this, but…life just doesn’t work out the way we want it to, no matter how hard we try.’

‘That doesn’t make it any less complicated,’ replied Peter.

Mr. Stark nodded. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t. That’s why you gotta deal with it head-on, I guess. Even if everything is horrible, and it just tries to drown you…you have to move on. And…I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened to you when you were younger. I know it’s not pretty – um, you wouldn’t want to talk about it—?’

Peter shook his head.

‘—ah, a clam like me. Well, I guess it’s probably bad for you, keeping it in like that. Maybe you should talk about…Anyways, all I’m saying is, no matter how many times life tries to kick you down and bury you into the dirt, just get back up. You’ve been killed nine times, right? You’re still up and about like you just walked it off. I’m sure it won’t be that hard to get back up if you’ve been knocked down a tenth time.’

Mr. Stark just shrugged. ‘You’re strong, Peter. I admire that. Don’t let yourself get lost in the miseries of life and just…move forward.’

Then Mr. Stark looked at him, gaze soft and sincere. ‘It’s the least any of us can do – even the most fragile of us, even the most broken of us. I’m sure you could do just as well; you are the best of us all, aren’t you?’

And then Peter’s eyes opened.

And then he shifted, ice cracking as he moved.

And he _breathed._

‘…the hell are you doing?’ came Ross’ voice.

He sounded so far away, so tiny, so insignificant. _Let him be_ , Peter thought.

Ice and frost crumbled away from him, and Peter pushed himself up from the ground and breathed in, digging his shoes into the snow.

‘Stay down, Parker,’ crowed Ross. ‘You’re too late to stop what is inevitable.’

‘Stay down?’ repeated Peter, glaring up at Ross. And then he laughed. ‘ _Stay down?_ Ross, you’ve known me for too long to say that I would listen to you and just _stay down_.’

Peter rose to his feet, and the straitjacket dissolved into white ash.

Ross stepped back.

‘Did you really think I would just roll over and bow to your feet after what you’ve done?’ asked Peter. His armlet burned bright blue like a star, casting certain features of Ross’ face into shadow. ‘You tortured _thousands_ of people with your lies and your deceit.’

‘The _lies and deceit_ were for the people of the nation,’ growled Ross, waving his hand.

‘You did nothing for America,’ snarled Peter. ‘You lied and you shunned and you oppressed to protect _yourself_. You didn’t even show your face to the public when you tried to take action – you just _used_ _me_.’

‘Well, the public wouldn’t take it kindly to see the Secretary of State barging into the streets to arrest mutants,’ spat Ross.

‘And that makes you all the more a coward,’ Peter replied. He was advancing, now – each step slow and painful, but he regained his footing, closing the gap between him and Ross, who was backing away, a hand partially raised.

‘You say I’m powerless,’ said Peter. He reached up for the collar around his neck. It snapped like paper in his hands. ‘You say I’m indecisive.’ He stormed forward, the blizzard swirling loudly around them. ‘You say I’m a failure.’

Ross raised a hand. In self-defence, as a threat—

* * *

_The gun clicked and Peter raised the gun. He lined the barrel with the back of Steve’s head. It glinted in the light; surely someone would see him now._

* * *

—but Peter grabbed Ross’ arm and pulled it back.

The man let out a cry of pain, of shock, of disbelief as he turned to face Peter, eyes wide. For once in his life, it seemed as if _Peter_ was the one towering over another – Ross looked small and shrivelled up against him, soaking up every wrong he had ever committed and sinking from the weight of it all.

‘I’ve been doing your dirty work the moment I set foot out of Stark Tower,’ Peter hissed at him. ‘I, and everyone else in the city, in this _country_ , have been bending over backwards to do the thing you couldn’t do yourself. To fight for a better future.’ Peter scowled at the man. ‘I’m not like you, Ross, and no matter what you do, I will never be.’

Peter reached up to the back of his neck.  
 _Peter reached up to the back of his neck._

His fingers brushed against the memory prober, where it sparked and hissed against his skin.  
 _His fingers brushed against the memory prober, where it sparked and hissed against his skin._

‘You were wrong to trap me here in my own mind,’ Peter told him. ‘You placed me in my own element; that alone shows you how much of an ass you are.’

And Peter ripped the memory prober away—  
 _And Peter ripped the memory prober away—_

* * *

And he awoke to light.

Peter’s hand were still raised, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. In his hands were the shattered pieces of the memory prober, and in his other—

A loaded gun.

The trigger hadn’t been pulled. No blood had been shed. And The Captain, Steve Rogers, stood proud and tall.

‘The moment where we forget our bitterness and bandage our wounds,’ he hollered over the crowd surrounding him. ‘When we forgive our enemies. Humans are both our creators and our oppressors, and tomorrow…we must make them our partners. Maybe one day, even our friends.’

Here, Steve and Bucky stood side by side, friends from a lifetime ago, looking out over the sea of superhumans, of a shining future, below them. ‘But the time for anger is over,’ said Steve, his voice echoing around Times Square. ‘Now we must build a common future based on tolerance and respect. We are not freaks, we are equals; and now, we are free!’

It was the dawn of November 11th, and Peter Parker unloaded his gun and let it fall to the ground behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time you've read this (and recovered from Ross' absolute mindfuckery) there's a Chapter 17 for our seventeen-year-old boy Peter waiting for y'all


	17. ⌜To a New Future⌟

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, fellas *salutes*
> 
> also click the hyperlinked text to listen to some vibes as you read :')

_**⌞Chapter 17⌝ ≎ ⌜To a New Future⌟  
** _ [ _****Avengers: Endgame | 'Go Ahead', Alan Silvestri** ** _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_gl5MGmdHY)

The news exploded in the morning. Peter woke up and barely managed to get through his daily routine as he stumbled through fifty news articles every minute – there were about seventy-three articles with his face plastered on them, and another eighty-two with _Peter Parker_ written in capital letters.

Admittedly, he wanted to live a life where he wasn't on the front page, but here was, a crucial figure in leading the revolution and equal rights campaign for superhumans.

The November chill was ever-present in his small apartment in Queens, his bed being the only thing that saved him from frozen joints when he stumbled into the room early in the morning. But even then, even when he had trudged through nearly two days without any rest, he still couldn't bring himself to sleep.

He spent the rest of the night wasting away his sanity by video calling Ned and Michelle. His friends were screaming, yelling things ranging from ' _You dumbass! You could have gotten yourself killed!_ ' to ' _You became buddies with the one and only Captain America from the 40s?! Holy shit, man! I love you!_ ' to ' _Ross was mind-controlling you? Wait 'til you get me to his office, I'll make him chew his own underpants in shame and have him rot in jail_.'

It was a rather enlightening experience, and Peter invited them all over to his place later in the morning, to which Ned and Michelle hurriedly agreed; while the world descended into mad confusion and new perspectives, at least their little friendship could stay the same, and they could enjoy it while it lasted. Michelle uttered a single, ' _God bless America and her young Peter Parker_ ,' and the three-way call finally clicked off at four in the morning.

(It later occurred to Peter that Michelle was being serious in trying to arrest Ross.)

(It was a good thing for her that Peter had kept the broken remains of the memory prober from the previous night.)

After that, Peter wasn't sure what prompted him to text the other person had the bottom of his contacts list – to be frank, he wasn't even sure _how_ he'd gotten their number. All that apparently mattered was that single message of confirmation, and Peter was stumbling out of his bed, sleep-deprived and giddy.

So.

They did it.

Superhumans could no longer be treated like the scum of society.

It was all so surreal. Like a dream, a snow-ridden fairy tale of some kind. Had Peter really been there on that stage, holding a gun that could have potentially ended it all and could have literally brought hell upon the land?

He'd rather not think about it, no.

It's why he opted to crawl out of bed at five, after all.

He kept glancing out the window in his kitchen as he did the dishes (not that there weren't any) for the fourth time, watching the cloudy sky turn from black to grey to indigo to a dark Persian blue. The clouds were dispersing slightly, and he could see parts of the city a lot farther to the east already bathed in a fiery gold glow.

After drying his hands, Peter showered and nearly all but drowned in the cleanliness of the soap and shampoo before he went to change into a clean set of clothes. His uniform from Stark Industries sat in a pile on his bed, winking up at him in the faint dawn light. There were yellowed marks on the white shirt from when he couldn't rinse out the blood and gunk from it in time before it dried. His pants were soiled and covered in scratch marks and dirt. Even his tie had grown wrinkled and dry and ruined beyond repair (thank God, he hated that tie).

Only his coat seemed to be relatively good in terms of appearance and practicality.

Shrugging to himself, Peter slipped on the first articles of clothing he found in his near-empty closet – those being a black shirt and jeans – before slipping on the coat and buttoning around his middle. It was thin and light, but it made up for it for its warmth and resistance to the cold weather.

He made himself toast, downed a glass of juice and combed his still wet hair back over his head.

He looked impeccable, just like the Peter Parker who had been on the cusp of turning seventeen three months ago – eager to do his job, to make a mark on the world.

It really was that long ago, wasn't it?

Peter glanced at the time – it was nearing seven, and the beginnings rays of the morning sun began to peek in through his window.

If he didn't leave now, he might not get there on time, and even though they weren't too big on punctuality, Peter was, so he made an effort to slip on his shoes as quickly as possible, grabbed his keys and raced for the door. His joints cracked and popped, and he winced at how loud they were in his quiet apartment.

Peter took the time to glance around his apartment. He had asked himself late last night if he could return home, return to some semblance of his normal life. And truly, while none of this, and anything that was to come, was normal, Peter hadn't lost anything – in fact, maybe he had gained a lot more than he had expected.

And for the first time, he was grateful for what he had now.

Smiling, Peter slipped out of his apartment, locked the door and bounded down the stairs.

* * *

The streets of New York were quiet and empty. That was to be expected; everyone was in such a desperate hurry to evacuate the city, to escape from being trapped in the crossfire late last night. Peter really couldn't blame them.

He was thankful for the silence, to be honest. He really didn't want to deal with the press early in the morning. Even the roar of any random vehicle on the road made him turn his head away, willing to avoid attention as he briskly strode through the streets and alleyways.

It took him a good half hour to make the walk from Queens into the heart of New York City without traffic. It took him another ten minutes to stroll through Midtown and to wind through the streets near the Stark Industries tower. The golden sunlight lit up the ghost city highlighted small piles of snow that had gathered overnight. Frost climbed up the walls and windows and across the floor, but Peter never slipped.

He never slipped.

And around the corner, Peter spotted a familiar car waiting by the curb.

A hot-red Audi R8.

Peter could feel his breaths quicken as he walked faster along the sidewalk, already craning his head forward to see if he could spot him—

And there he was.

Tony Stark stood by the darkened windows of Baskin Robbins as he was silhouetted against the sun, his arms folded against his chest as he tapped his foot against the snowy ground. He wore a thick leather jacket and jeans, and Peter noticed his hair wasn't as dishevelled as when he first saw him. In fact, it seemed as if Tony had taken the time to stop himself and finally care about himself for once.

And then Tony was turning—

And both Peter and Tony locked eyes.

Tony's eyes were crinkling with a smile, the corners of his mouth turning upward as he took a few slow steps forward. Peter wasn't sure when he was moving, but in moments there was only a few metres between them both.

Grinning, Tony said, 'Good morning, Junior Detective.'

Peter let himself smile, then. He couldn't remember how freeing it was to let everything out in that one gesture – he couldn't remember when he had last _smiled_ so fully.

'I thought we were over the professional aspect of our relationship,' Peter remarked lightly.

Expecting a few words of mockery, Peter was surprised to see Tony regard him in silence. In...pride. Unlike the way Ross had analysed him back in his office, the way Tony looked at him was like he was soaking in everything _good_ that had accumulated over the past few days.

And then Tony was reaching forwards suddenly, his arms hooking swiftly around Peter and pulling him close. Tony pressed Peter's head into his shoulder as the man buried his face into Peter's hair, and Peter could literally feel the freshness of the man's clothes, his hair, his face as he returned the hug.

'This is nice,' Peter said softly, sighing into the embrace.

Tony coughed. 'I, uh, figured...we were _there_ , you know,' Tony said after a moment, as if he was little unsure of what he was doing and saying himself. 'Think of it as...an award for being a fantastic worker. Congratulations, you get a day off.'

'Well, um, it was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Stark.'

'Likewise, Mr. Parker.'

'I just...' Peter shrugged himself out of the hug, his hands still lingering on Tony's arms. He blinked against the sunlight as he thought about his words. 'It's been...a _hell_ of a week, you know? None of this seems _real_. I'm wondering when the rug is going to get pulled from underneath us.'

'It gets like that sometimes, kid, I know,' Tony said empathetically. 'But...I think the worst is over. Like The Captain said poetically onstage: " _we forget our bitterness and bandage our wounds_ ". We can move on, now.' He angled himself to block some of the warm sunlight that blinded Peter. 'I think the time to unwind has finally arrived, huh, kid?'

Peter nodded, glancing at the quiet world around him. Blue shadows, golden lights, a world of greys and whites and blacks all blended with colours of hope. A sunrise truly was a wondrous thing, wasn't it?

It felt like the end of a story, of a tale of suffering and hardships. But he couldn't help but think that maybe not all things in his life ended here; they had just hit one of the rockiest stretches of the trail to peace, and now the land lay flat before them with untold surprises. Maybe this was all just another path to a greater future. A new chapter for a better life.

'To a new future?' asked Tony, slipping an arm around Peter's shoulder and holding him close.

Peter raised a hand tapped Tony's hand, smiling once more. 'To a new future.'

_**⌜End⌟** _

\--||--

_**⌜Superhumans⌟** _

| _Peter Parker_ | _Steve Rogers_ | _Wanda Maximoff_ | _Pietro Maximoff_ |  
| Stephen Strange | The Ancient One | Bucky Barnes |  
| _Matthew Murdock_ | _Danny Rand_ | _Janet Van Dyne_ |  
| Billy Kaplan | Tommy Shepherd | Kamala Khan |

_**⌜Humans⌟** _

| _Tony Stark_ | _Thaddeus Ross_ | _Henry "Hank" Pym_ |  
| James "Rhodey" Rhodes | Ned Leeds | Michelle Jones |  
| _Nick Fury_ | _Flash Thompson_ | _Brad Davis_ | _Herman Schultz_ |  
| Adrian Toomes | Liz Toomes | Doris Toomes | Quentin Beck |  
| _Sally Avril_ | _Fredrick "Foggy" Nelson_ | _Scott Lang_ |  
| Abraham Brown | Helen Cho | Bruce Banner | Helmut Zemo |  
| _Clint Barton_ | _Natalia Romanova_ | _Phil Coulson_ | _Maria Hill_ |  
| Pepper Potts | Morgan Stark |  
| _Ben Parker_ | _May Parker |_

_**⌜Of Other Origins⌟** _

| J.A.R.V.I.S. | Thor | Loki | DUM-E |

The plot of this story was based on Quantic Dream's video game _Detroit: Become Human_ ;  
this particular story was based on the playthrough by Youtuber Jacksepticeye. Elements and  
characters were based on the iterations from Disney, Sony and Marvel Studios' Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Thank you all for enduring this journey!

\--||--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um holy shit??? Wow??? This is the end??? Are we actually here? Damn I didn't actually THINK I'd make it this far; I honestly thought I was going to abandon the story at some point because I'm never committed to anything but you guys came in with tonne lot of support on both Wattpad and Ao3 and I just HAD to finish this...so here we are, with a good ending :')
> 
> This thing tackled some pretty heavy issues like inequality, death and loss, drugs and addiction and alcoholism, and violence and sometimes it got to me? It wasn't an easy thing to write knowing that things like this happen in our everyday lives, but I guess this proves that our small acts of kindness actually do go a long way. I want all yous to know that :)) You are all important, to yourselves and others so keep that positive energy with you and project it! Be like our boy Peter and help our world!!!
> 
> Okay, I'm all mushy-feely inside, this has been such a ride, I don't know about you guys but BOY this was fun!! I never thought I'd be here finishing a story lol. So, like the blunt sentence above the break: thank you all for enduring this journey, hope you enjoyed it like I did, and see ya around!!!
> 
> \- DemigodOfAgni


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